


Where Evil Breeds

by Doceo_Percepto



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Allison is a good person, Bendy is his little cartoon self, Biting, Blood, Body Horror, Child Abuse, Corpse Desecration, Cutting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drinking, Gore, Henry is a good dude, Henry needs help and therapy, Joey is a very bad man, Medical Misadventures, Needles, Other, Pedophilia, Rape, Reality Warping, Sammy is VERY concerning, Self-Harm, The new and not improved Henry, Threesome, Wally is a cinnamon roll, bludgeoning, but he's really creepy, is this horror or comedy, weird awkward attempt at sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-15 03:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 35
Words: 95,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14782838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: Henry had hoped that the success of Joey Drew Studios would assuage the ever-lurking madness within his friend. That maybe, given money and success and a name recognized across the country, Joey might get better on his own. That he might conquer his demons.Instead, Joey creates a new demon.





	1. Henry

“This is it,” Joey breathed, rapping his knuckles against the desk. “This is the future, Henry.”

“You think so?” Henry fingered the edge of his paper, where he had just wrapped up a rough storyboard for his new character.

Joey spread open his arms and laughed heartily. “Look at him! Every kid and adult across this country is going to want to see that face on the big screen! And the humor here, it's perfect - Say, what do you call him?”

“Well, I’m not sure yet, but I was thinking of Bendy…”

“Bendy, I love it! Look, there’s only one problem. You gotta ditch that smile. Gimme your pen.”

Joey leaned over the side of his wheelchair and sketched in a new, bigger grin across Bendy’s face. “Perfect, just perfect.”

“It’s a little creepy…”

“It’s adorable, Henry! These days, everyone needs a big smile. Tell ya what, give me these sketches, and I’ll have a couple more characters ready tomorrow. We’ll be rolling out episodes in no time! Bendy is the future of the studio, Henry. You did it again.”

 

 

Joey was, it turned out, right. The Bendy cartoons launched Joey Drew Studios to new heights, earned it money that none of their cartoons had previously achieved. With new income came new developments.

“New rooms, new equipment, new _people_!” Joey declared. “This is a dog eat dog world, Henry, and to stay on top, any studio’s gotta adapt, gotta change, gotta improve.”

Henry wasn’t so sure the improvements were necessary or helpful. The studio became an impossible place to work, with constant construction thundering through the wooden walls, and people tramping in and out all day, and enough new employees that Henry lost track of who was who.

“Dream bigger!” Joey boomed. “Don’t ever stop dreaming, Henry.”

Truthfully, Henry missed the quiet little studio they’d had before, where it was just a handful of men against the world, trying to make their little cartoons known.

But… such was the nature of progress, he supposed.

 

 

Joey Drew had always been a strange, overly ambitious man, with dreams bigger than his own abilities. But he was determined, if nothing else, gritty and determined and ready to sacrifice to make his dreams reality.

Joey and Henry started the studio together, on near-equal footing, but it was Joey that quickly took over the business side of things, managing the money, managing the choices for the studio, managing people. At the start, at least, he was the voice people needed, he inspired confidence, belief, that this tiny little place could make it big.

But there were doubts, dark moments that Henry alone was privy to.

He once found Joey after hours, slumped over his desk with a couple bottles of homebrew scattered over the floor.

“Henry,” Joey had slurred, eyes glazed. “We’re gonna run this place straight into the ground-“

Henry collected the bottles, “you can’t let people see these around the studio, Joey-“

“Henry.” He grabbed his sleeve, gaze unfocused but twisted in pain. “We’re all goin’ nowhere, Henry. And – you know what?”

“We gotta get you some water, Joey.”

“You know what, we deserve it.” Joey’s foggy eyes burned with self-loathing.

“Don’t talk like that-“ It scared the hell out of Henry to see his friend like this, so far removed from the confident, brash man he truly was.

“ _I_ deserve it,” Joey said, a conviction in his eyes like a death sentence. “If you knew the things I want, Henry, if you knew the things I’d done-“

“Don’t talk like that, Joey.”

 

 

That incident wasn’t the first, and wasn’t the last. There were two sides to Joey Drew: there was the man who believed everything was possible, and there was the man petrified by a thousand terrors – terrors of his own humanity and morality, terrors of his financial ruin, terrors of leaving nothing behind after his death, terrors of an obscure nature that Henry couldn’t understand.

“I can feel their eyes on me,” Joey confessed to Henry once, slumped in his wheelchair and staring at the ceiling like a man possessed.

“Their eyes…?”

“Of the gods.” Joey raised hands above his head; his lips parted and trembled. “They’re upset with me, Henry.”

“Joey, don’t do this.”

“But I can’t stop,” Joey breathed. “By the gods, I can’t stop.”

Henry should have sent him to the hospital. Everyone was touting new radical cures for illnesses like Joey’s; surely they could do something to fix it? But Henry didn’t bring him in.

On some level, Henry had hoped that the success of Joey Drew Studios would assuage the ever-lurking madness within his friend. That maybe, given money and success and a name recognized across the country, Joey might get better on his own. That he might conquer his demons.

That was not to be so.

 

 

Henry caught Joey hobbling back from the basement one day, his face twisted with rage. This came on the heels of Henry overhearing a shouting match between Joey and some of the construction workers in the basement.

“Joey-?” Henry caught up to his side. “What’s all this noise about?”

“They’re complaining about their wages! They get to be part of the studio that will be known ‘round the world, and they have the audacity to ask for a higher wage! Hah! The fame alone should be enough!”

“I dunno, don’t ya think the studio has the money to spare?"

Joey shook his head back and forth viciously. “No, no, no. We’ll just have to get rid of them.”

“Joey, be reasonable, these men deserve their paychecks-“

“We don’t have money for them-“

Henry was confounded about how Joey could have spent everything earned by the successes of the last two episodes. “Joey, where’s all the money going to?”

 

 

It was only a week later when work began on the Ink Machine. It was an ugly, foul machine that chugged and thumped and hissed black steam. Its many pipe appendages snaked throughout the entire studio, filling every hall and every room with the sound of sluggishly pumped liquid.

“I don’t get it; why do we need a thing like that?” Henry asked.

“Any studio worth its weight has gotta stay at the forefront of technology. Just you wait, this machine will change the animation world forever!”

Henry didn’t have long to wait before learning what Joey Drew meant by that. It was after hours, while Henry was bowed over his desk finishing the cels they always seemed to be behind on, when Joey burst in, his expression stricken with excitement.

“Henry, come, come quick-“

“I need to finish these cels-“

“ _Now_ ,” Joey ordered, and he looked so deranged, so manic with a loose grin on his face and his eyes wild, that Henry obeyed immediately.

“What is it? What’s going on, Joey?”

“You must keep it a secret. Of course you understand, these things require some secrecy… the world isn’t ready yet, but it _will be_.”

“Slow down, Joey, what is this you’re going on about?”

“You’ll see, you’ll see- Come, this way.”

Joey hobbled to his office, and Henry followed with growing fear. If the head of the studio had finally snapped, what could be done? What would become of everyone, as Joey was the axis keeping everyone together? 

When Henry actually entered Joey's office, these thoughts quickly fled from his mind in favor of his horror. The place was _changed_. Most shockingly, Joey’s desk had been shunted to the wall, and a huge pentagram painted into the floor, but there were also ink spatters  _everywhere._

“Is this Satanic?” Henry uttered, heart thumping.

“No, no, come, look-“ Joey locked the door behind Henry and staggered over to the bookshelf, where he removed a small ink well.

“Um….?”

Collapsing into his wheelchair, Joey wheeled over to his desk. “Come, come close-“

That involved stepping around the pentagram. Henry didn’t consider himself as superstitious man, but no good could come from being incautious around symbols like this.

“Henry!” Joey scolded.

“Right.” Henry skirted around the pentagram.

Joey, practically quivering with excitement, opened the inkwell and dumped its contents on his desk, right onto the wood. Predictably, the ink spattered and almost immediately began to sink into the wood, but Joey Drew, the once brilliant mind behind Joey Drew Studios, stared at the ink like it was the coming of Jesus.

Oh, no. “Joey-“ Maybe it was time to tell someone of Joey's madness, to _do_ something – then the tiny ink splatter shivered. Henry did a double-take, certain he must have been imagining things.

“Ah, a shy little twit,” Joey procured a needle and poked the splatter. Then, right before Henry’s eyes, minuscule arms like spider legs sprouted from the ink. A head was pulled out after, but it was shapeless, amorphous, with nothing but a gasping mouth twisted into a perpetual grimace.

Henry could do nothing but stare, hardly comprehending what it was he was looking at. This alone was beyond shocking, but Joey looked immensely disappointed. “It’s not as well formed as it was before…” Angrily, Joey poked the needle repeatedly into the ink creation's skull. Several little hands weakly swatted at the needle; the thing made a weak, diminutive cry of protest.

“Stop-“ Human or not, _supernatural_ or not, those tiny cries were a universal language of pain. "You're hurting it-"

Joey slammed the needle down, unhappiness lining his brow. “It was so much better before, Henry, you should have seen it! I really thought I was close to something with this one, I really did – but their quality deteriorates shortly after their creation – there’s something I’m missing-“

“Wait, _them_? There are more of these?”

“There _were_ more.” Sighing, Joey grabbed a bottle of acetone from the top drawer of his desk. Before Henry could stop him, he splashed it over the tiny creature’s head.

Henry watched in horror as the creature yowled and thrashed, little arms flailing and tearing at its own bubbling flesh while the acetone ripped its inky body apart. Then it was over, and there was nothing but a tiny puddle on Joey’s desk.

“You… killed it.”

“It was a waste. But we’re getting closer-“ 

“Closer to what?” Henry asked, regretting his question when a positively frightening grin spread across Joey’s face.

“Well, isn’t it obvious, Henry? A creation made of ink?”

“I don't....?”

“Why, I’m going to bring Bendy to life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have preemptively tagged this fic as explicit simply so people do not start reading it now and think that's it's going to stay SFW, only to be surprised later on. However, any explicit content will take a few chapters to get to.


	2. Sammy

Sammy Lawrence was a prodigy.

From a young age, music bloomed in his head, tunes sprouting out from nothing to become something. He tapped his fingers, hummed, sang, anything to get that music flowing out. Around eight, he found and dug out an old dinged up banjo. He spent hours hiding away from his father in the barn, tweaking the strings and conjuring up rhythms to lose himself in. The banjo was his first true instrument, and his first true escape, one that he gratefully fled to when things on the farm got overwhelming. It was through its strings that he first found expression of himself.

When Sammy was twelve, his father destroyed the banjo.

Music did not feed the animals. Music did not put food on the table. Music did not run farms.

For a while after that, music was something Sammy did not express. It wasn’t a safe thing to express. It was still there, always, but he kept it trapped and stifled in his mind. He turned to another outlet. One that started ingloriously with a razor in his bathroom. The exquisite relief of that first time, and the beautiful sight of his own blood dripping down his arm – those things enraptured him. He did it rarely, furtively, whenever he could smuggle away a razor and some solitude. Never to kill himself, no – it was never out of self hatred, but out of love. Out of fascination, adoration, admiration - of his own body, his own pain. Like his own expression of art on his skin, and a release from the world.

Music only came to life again at a little run down church a mile from the farm. At the church, he found reprieve and solace through the piano, as his very devout aunt encouraged his exploration of music in relation to worship. Once he’d grasped the basics, he was allowed to play at congregations and small events; while his knowledge grew, more and more freedoms were granted to him, like the responsibility of cleaning and tuning the piano, and the ability to compose tunes himself, so long as they fit the parameters requested. His father never ever approved.

“Ain't that a woman’s job?” was his main complaint, often followed by some remark or the other about running the farm into the ground because Sammy wasn’t helping – he was the only one out of seven children that wasn’t shouldering his responsibilities as he should. However, with his aunt’s encouragement, his father reluctantly allowed it - only because it was for God.

Sammy never felt especially inclined to belief himself. An immoral cynicism rooted itself into his chest from a young age, and it only deepened with the years. Sammy believed in things he could see and touch, not a God so aloof to the cries the congregation sent to him. The whole flock seemed wicked according to their God’s rules, anyway – and Sammy, staying late one evening to clean the piano, once glimpsed the pastor on top of Mrs. Hattie.

Sammy didn’t care for religion or its hypocrisies, and he didn’t care for the farm. It was always about the music.

Sammy’s father died when Sammy was twenty-six, and against all his brothers’ wishes, he fled the farm for the city. Nothing was easy, but he picked up work in churches much nicer than the shack he knew, and eventually tutored and instructed on the piano. He fought to stay financially afloat, and aggressively worked to adjust his rural accent and dress to urban ones.

He couldn't afford to see the traveling orchestras (couldn’t afford the formal wear necessary to even go to such a thing), but he snuck in the doors once and got to watch for fifteen minutes before he was found and shuffled out. Those fifteen minutes, though, ignited a new, fierce passion. The booming acoustics that thrummed in his bones, the powerful blend of instruments, the rising emotion!

The only thing that disappointed Sammy was the balding man heading the whole affair, as he looked stiff and uninspiring - Sammy thought he himself would strike a much more impressive image at the head of such a magnificent orchestra.

It was that experience that showed Sammy what he was meant for: creating a brilliant masterpiece of a composition – no, _many_ brilliant compositions. He should be elbow deep in writing for the biggest orchestras of the world, and he should be there every step of the way to guide musicians to play it to perfection.

But to do that, he needed to get beyond tutoring and playing at churches. He frantically grabbed for whatever temporary music-related work he could get, anything that allowed him to build his knowledge. More than once, he secured tutoring positions for instruments he’d never touched in his life, only to spend sleepless nights extrapolating from the first hour that he'd gotten his hands on it.

In the interim, he purchased a radio where he could listen to all the great classics, and he began to compose the first collection of notes for the symphony he had in mind: a symphony that would gain him recognition as a maestro, that would launch him into fame and grant him the accolades he deserved.

It was only a year after the symphony’s start that a client of his noted,

“Say, a friend of mine works at some upstart animation studio. Apparently they’re looking for a music director, if you’re into that sort of thing…”

Well, music director was a step up from tutor and church pianist. Sammy wore his best outfit, combed back his hair, and made sure any trace of country accent wouldn’t slip in. He met with Joey Drew, who was probably the sleaziest man Sammy had ever encountered - but he could tolerate sleazy if got him what he wanted in the end. After demonstrating his proficiency on a handful of instruments and performing a few pieces he had composed, Sammy secured a full time job for the first time in his life.

The job gave him access to a roomful of instruments, and authority over an orchestra, however small. Sammy started out eager, delighted to be in such a position. How quickly he learned his naiveté.

His coworkers were abysmal, his office space tiny. And Joey - he didn’t care about any of his employees. He stalked about the studio going on about dreams and successes and greatness, but didn’t pay a lick of attention to the people working under him.

Worse, he installed the godforsaken ink machine, which made the entire studio reek of phenol. At all hours it was thumping and steaming like a living beast. Sammy didn’t understand why the cursed thing was necessary. He couldn't imagine the animators needed all the ink that flowed through its pipes on a daily basis. The noise and smell of the thing made it impossible to work. Impossible to keep one’s thoughts together.

He labored over his personal symphony in whatever free minutes he earned at work, slotted in between haranguing musicians and fixing his pathetic coworker’s mistakes, but the noise of the machine throbbed in his head and disrupted his work. How could he build a magnum opus with that thing invading his skull? How could he do anything at all, with workers in and out of his office all day?

For some weeks this stymied the progress on his symphony, but Sammy worked through it, adding to his masterpiece note by note and measure by measure. It was during this time that he realized the sanctity of his music was something he wanted to appreciate in another, new way: carving the symphony's notes into his skin. Working over old scars to make them into something purposeful, meaningful. Transform his own skin into a canvas displaying his greatest achievement.

The ritual of this was something sacred, something that nobody else could possibly understand. He’d come home from work, irritable from the stupidity of his coworkers and the monotony of his job, and he’d pick up the little silver knife he had for the purpose. If he had new notes, whittled to perfection, then he’d add those to the codified lines scrawled all over his arms. If there was no new notes to add (which was most of the time, as genius took time to develop), then he’d part open older marks, older notes, and pleasure would flower up from the stinging wounds and spread through his entire body like a wave.

He was well aware how odd, how freakish such a thing would make him in the eyes of everyone else. While he was no stranger to being ostracized and judged, the marks of his masterpiece were his own, for his own pleasure.

Every day he wore long sleeves, regardless of the weather, and was especially vigilant to keep his cuffs tucked close to his hands so that no wandering eyes caught a glimpse of his marks. He wore them proudly, but proudly concealed beneath his clothes, like a secret treasure he carried with him everywhere. Something only for him.

It was such a singular, powerful feeling, that his thin fingers were perpetually creeping up his sleeves and caressing over the raised lines. As he felt each line, he could hear that bit of the song in his head, as vividly as if he had just stepped into the midst of a booming orchestra. It was soothing, a reminder both of the greatness that called to him, and of the blessed sting that had put the notes into his skin.

Once, only once, had someone caught glimpse of the marks – Wally, that bastard. Burst into his office once when Sammy had his eyes closed, his head tilted up in bliss, and his fingers marched halfway up his forearm. Sammy had shoved his sleeve down fast as a bullet, and yelled the ratty janitor out of his office. But now sometimes Wally’s vivid green eyes wandered to Sammy’s covered forearms. Trying to work out what was under his sleeves, and why. Sammy wished he could get the janitor fired, but Joey always waved away his concerns. 

There was only one person who knew: Susie Campbell. Oh, Susie, and the melodious voice that she lent to Alice Angel. When Sammy first heard her sing, it filled his head with all sorts of ideas. There was no place for vocals in his masterpiece, no, but truly great artists never finish with just one masterpiece. When he heard her, oh, did he imagine a new song, did he form aspirations for where she fit into his works.

He was captivated. There were few opportunities to speak to Susie, and this proved to be his own downfall, because he formed an image of who she was, and she was never around enough to prove that image false. Instead, he built and built on the fantasy.

It culminated into one horrible, deluded mistake. In a fit of passion, certain the instrument of Susie’s voice belonged in his compositions, he did what he had never done with anyone before: he pulled up his sleeves, and tried to explain. Humiliatingly, he outright rambled about his masterpiece, and the honor it would be to have her be part of his works –

Oh, what a stupid mistake. She wasn’t at all what Sammy thought. No, she was very different from what he thought, and not different at all from everyone else. He had only deluded himself otherwise. She saw the marks and she didn’t understand. She had stifled a scream with her hand, and backed away.

“You’re a freak, Sammy Lawrence, a freak- don’t you come near me!“

That night, for the first time, Sammy cut himself out of anger and humiliation. All the wrong reasons. After doing it, he was horrified. He had let someone come in and disrupt something that had for so long been perfect. He murmured apologies to himself, caressing over previous scars, swearing he’d never do such a thing out of such negative emotions again.

People couldn't understand. That’s how it was. That’s how it should remain. His was a genius beyond their comprehension – they too easily misunderstood, were too easily afraid or mistaken.

So let them judge. Let them murmur about how he was a man in his mid thirties, still without a woman to speak of, living alone like a recluse. He had his masterpiece. And one day his eccentrics would be viewed as part of his genius, in the way so many geniuses had peculiarities.

As for the needs that, annoyingly, came with being a man, he did just fine curbing that on his own every morning, with a clinical detachment that came from doing any irksome human need. He wasn’t unfamiliar with sex itself. There were fumbling, clumsy attempts in his youth, that left him more confused and anxious than satisfied, with pigtailed sun-freckled girls who knew more than him, that fawned over his size and made exaggerated moans that he was certain couldn't be genuine.

He didn’t want any part of that.

And so these were his rituals – in the morning, masturbating; during the day, suffering through work and painstakingly drawing notes from his genius; and in the evening, blessedly cutting notes from his symphony onto his skin. He wanted nothing else. Needed nothing else. Or so he thought.

See, these were his rituals _before_ Bendy came. Every one of them would change, in marvelous and awful ways, and Sammy would see what it was he truly needed.


	3. Henry

Every person had flaws. Henry? He had a multitude, most of them little more than pesky. He couldn’t find his way around the city worth a damn, for one thing – as soon as he deviated anywhere from his standard routes, he was lost. His fashion sense was abysmal, and it’s very lucky he had Linda to keep him straight in the morning. But the worst flaw, the one that inevitably got him into the most trouble, was his inability to say no. It wasn’t a trait he was proud of. And it was one that Joey endlessly capitalized on.

With every brilliant idea that Joey whole-heartedly threw himself into, Henry inevitably got dragged along, regardless of how he felt about it, because he had no ability to speak up or refuse. He simply dawdled along, having all these doubts on the inside but not bringing a single one to the surface. Joey’s insane mission to bring cartoon characters into the real world rapidly became one such example. All Henry wanted to do was sit at his desk and animate. That’s all he wanted to do in his life to begin with, largely because drawing was the only thing he’d ever been good at. Instead, Joey started tugging him away from his desk, most often after hours when nearly every other worker had already gone home.

Joey showed him perhaps half a dozen little tortured ink creations, and perhaps half a dozen times Henry tried to say that maybe Joey shouldn’t be doing this, maybe he needed focus on the show that their studio rode on.

“We missed another deadline-“ Henry managed to mention once, while Joey drowned another creation in acetone, and Joey tutted,

“Think of the money involved if we do this right!”

But every little creation that Joey made, he subsequently destroyed. All of them were miniscule things that weakened over time.

“It never works,” Joey growled, pacing in his pentagram-haunted office.

“Maybe this is a sign we shouldn’t be doing this,“ Henry quietly piped in.

“No. It’s a sign I’m missing something. Some crucial ingredient. But what.”

Henry didn’t know if he wanted Joey to succeed or fail. If he failed enough times, Henry prayed he’d just drop the whole matter, and accept that the studio could do just fine with or without living 3D cartoon characters. If he succeeded, Henry prayed that the success would give the studio enough fortune and popularity to soothe Joey’s madness. But Henry was beginning to doubt such a thing was possible.

“Just one more animator,” Henry pleaded once, while Joey was mulling over some thick heavy book written in a script Henry couldn’t begin to understand (he didn’t get how Joey could read it either). “One more animator would relieve the burden, Joey - so many of us are staying late, and men deserve to have some time with their wives in the evening-“

“Absolutely not,” Joey retorted. “The Ink Machine and the theme park are priority now, Henry.”

“Right,” Henry said, when he really wanted to demand why exactly the studio needed a theme park, and why exactly the Ink Machine mattered so much.

Joey snapped his fingers. “I think I’ve got it.”

But whatever he “got,” he didn’t feel the need to share it with Henry.

 

It was the next evening that everything in the studio changed forever.

An hour after he should have been off the clock, Henry heard Joey’s distinctive three-beat gait coming down the hall, and his heart sank. Another creation, no doubt. Something just a little bit stronger or just a little bit different from the others, enough to warrant Henry’s attention. And then Joey would crow over it a bit before destroying it. Henry was sick of the whole process, and he hated seeing the tiny creatures die.

Joey’s clammy hand clapped on his shoulder. “Henry!”

Henry gathered his resolve - “Joey, we’re behind on these cels, I need-“

“Tch-ch! That’s not important right now, Henry.”

He could do this. He had to stand up for himself. “This is important,” Henry started, “Without the-“

Joey’s hand slammed down on his desk. “What I’ve got to show you is the most important thing you’ve ever seen with your own two eyes. This is revolutionary. Beyond your wildest dreams, Henry. This will change your life.”

Behind his glasses, Joey’s eyes glinted with manic energy. There was a twitch at the corner of his thin lips, and a tremble in his knobby fingers. He was in one of those moods. Henry opened his mouth as if to protest again, and then shut it.

“Great,” Joey patted his back hard, “great, I knew you’d come through. Follow me.”

Henry sighed. The cels could be finished later. He followed Joey deeper into the studio. “What do you have to show me? Another creation?” Funny that a person could get tired of seeing life created from nothing. Joey was acting as some kind of god, but all Henry wanted was for him to drop the entire thing.

“Not just any creation. _Your_ creation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Henry, I made Bendy. Your Bendy. Off the page and into 3D! Maybe with a bit of polishing he could greet people into the theme park, or guide tours!” Joey said all this very quickly – almost as if panicking, but it had to be excitement, “he’s a cute little devil. Great with kids, I’m sure. Once you teach him a thing or two.”

It couldn’t be real. Just last week, the most Joey could create was a three inch tall many-armed beast that survived for two hours before losing its form entirely. Henry had never actually believed that Joey could bring Bendy himself to life. “I don’t understand,” Henry said, “it’s – it’s really Bendy?” Had Joey finally lost his mind?

“Well, of course! You’ll see. Say, I was thinking, you’d be the perfect person to teach him- ah, but here we are-”

They were now at the door to a backroom of the studio, behind which Henry heard nothing but the clicking of a projector.

“Let’s not bother him-“ Joey flicked the lights off, and then nudged the door open. He had a projector set up inside the room, and on the flickering reel played Haunted Hijinx, the sound turned down real low.

There was a _thing_ sitting and watching. Bendy _._ Kicking little black booted feet that didn’t reach the floor. In the flickering darkness Henry could make out the curve of his horns, and the stark white of his gloves. The hair on Henry’s arms rose. A cartoon brought to reality. Henry hadn’t fully grasped how eerie such a thing would be.

“There’s no acetone left.” Joey’s brow looked tight now, and his smile forced. “I tried. At uh, at first, I tried. But I used all of it. He just reforms, Henry. He doesn’t die like the others.”

Now that Henry thought about it, Joey was cowering behind him. Nothing about this felt right.

“So I set him up with the episodes,” Joey added, and it was much much easier to read the edge of fear in his voice now. “He loves ‘em. So uh, Henry, I thought, you’d be a great person to teach him how things are around the studio. Give him the lo-down, show him how to fit in. It’s only right, since he’s yours-”

“He’s not-“ Henry started, too loud, and it caught the demon’s attention.

Any further words strangled to nothing. Its face was bone white, mouth stretched in a grin, eyes black as the void. It wore the facade of Bendy, but it was so, so far from the timid friendly creature that Henry knew. There was something dark behind that smile.

“Bendy,” Joey greeted nervously. “Look, I brought Henry, just like you asked-“

The demon hopped off the chair. “My creator, huh?” it said, cheerful, high-pitched, and so _empty_. A pointed tail flicked at its heels. Henry had never designed a tail for Bendy.

“Uh.” Henry bumped into Joey. “Um-“

Then it was standing in front of him, maybe two or three feet high, grabbing him with a hand that was cold as the dead. It felt like neither a liquid nor a solid, and its grip was painfully tight. It didn’t realize how hard it was squeezing. Maybe didn’t realize how easily people could be hurt.

Instinctively Henry tried to pull away, and Bendy yanked his arm back. It was very strong, and it laughed: a cold, sharp sound. “What is this, tug-o-war? Like Bendy played with Boris? Didn’t know you were supposed to play that with human limbs.”

Bendy pulled; Henry stumbled forward. “Stop-“

“Bendy lost that game, didn’t he? You must be pretty bad at it, then, to lose to me.”

Another tug. Henry was worried Bendy was going to break something.

Bendy laughed. “C’mon, Henry, I only wanna make sure.”

“Make sure?” Henry echoed. He wanted very much for Bendy to let go of him.

“Oh, that you’re really who Joey says you are.” Bendy pressed two gloved fingers to Henry’s pulse. It was quiet for several seconds. Enough time for Henry to realize the toon wasn’t breathing. It apparently had no need to. Its smile slowly widened. Its grip was tightening, and Henry whimpered,

“That hurts-“

“You _are_ my creator!”

“Well, now that you’re acquainted-“ Joey started, but it was interrupted when Bendy let out a whoop, releasing Henry and dancing away.

“That means you know _everything_ about Bendy, right? You can help me. I have to learn how to be him, after all – it’s not like this came with an instruction manual!” Cackling, it waved at the images projected on the wall. “Or I guess it did! Ya got all these nice cartoons for me! About me! They sure are helpful.”

“So you’re _not_ Bendy,” Henry said slowly, rubbing his wrist.

“Well, of course I am. Look at me, Henry, don’t ya recognize your own character?”

No. He wasn’t anything like Bendy. He was wild, alien, frightening. And there was something much darker behind that smile, something that shouldn’t be allowed in this world.

“’Course he recognizes you,” Joey boomed. “Right, Henry?”

“Right,” Henry answered blankly. When Henry was very afraid, his mind seemed to lapse into a strange fog or cushion, where any emotions failed to rise to the surface. That state was so thick now that it felt entire body was wrapped in cellophane.

“Great,” said Joey. “Then I’ll leave you two to it.”

“Wait what-“

“Well, he’s yours, Henry, I’m sure you can look after him, teach him a thing or two about how to behave. As he said, he wants to learn. And I've got my plate full right now, got some things to work on-”

“It’s – it’s evening, I need to get home-“

Joey squeezed his shoulder. “You can sacrifice just a little bit for this company. Oh and, better we don’t share this secret until everything’s ironed out, Henry. We don’t need a panic in the studio now, do we?”

“Joey-“

“Hey,” Bendy grabbed his arm suddenly – it could move fast when it wanted – and god, it had no idea you weren’t supposed to just _grab_ people to get their attention. “Hey, Henry, I got a bone to pick with ya. That’s how you say it right?”

Henry frantically looked at Joey for help, but the studio owner was sidling out. Damnit, Joey knew how frightening this thing was. He had brought it to life (by means Henry dreaded to imagine), and now he was trying to make it Henry’s responsibility. Joey was very fond of passing the consequences of his own faults onto Henry, but Henry had never been so frightened to take over the result.

“See,” Bendy was saying, “maybe you’re confused because I’m not scared, and-“

“Joey, please-” Henry hissed. He had to get home, to Linda (oh, Linda, what could he tell her-)

“Hey!” Bendy yanked his arm again, harder. “I’m talkin’ to you, Henry.”

Joey disappeared around the corner, and then Henry was alone with the thing.

“Yes?” Henry said mutely.

“I was just noticin’ that in a lot of episodes, Bendy gets real scared. And sometimes the other characters laugh at him. Why’d ya do that, Henry?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, as if he wasn’t conversing with a nightmare of a character he himself had drawn. That cushion around his panic had returned.

“In almost all the episodes, there’s somethin’ that scares him. And sometimes the other characters laugh. I don’t like that.”

“It’s comedy,” Henry replied, calm as ever, “It’s a tactic a lot of cartoons use nowadays. Nothing against Bendy.”

“Oh, that makes sense.” Bendy grinned. “Fear _is_ funny. But I want to see Boris scared. Or Alice. Ooh, what do humans look like when they’re scared?”

Henry was not entirely comfortable with this line of questioning. “Like the cartoons, but not as exaggerated,” he managed to reply like it was something he was asked every day.

“ _Weird_. Ya gotta show me sometime, Henry-o. But in the meantime, tone down the whole fear thing for Bendy. I really don’t think scared is his personality, yanno? And just between you and me, wow, it’s hard for me to act afraid.” Bendy smiled and smiled.

Well, that was nice and chilling. Henry decided it wasn’t wise to mention that he had created Bendy, as well as the personality traits of him being shy and easily frightened – ergo, Henry knew best that those traits _were_ Bendy’s. Instead, he said, “I can try to do that.”

“Great. Now you need to watch every episode with me.”

 _What_. “I should return you to Joey for the night. Maybe tomorrow-“

“Start the projector at the beginning.”

“Bendy-“

“Henry,” Bendy repeated in the same tone, but mocking and sharp. “Henry. Henry. Henry.”

Henry couldn't tell if Bendy was angry or just having fun, but he had the sense both states were very dangerous. 

“ _Henry_.” Bendy poked his leg hard. “Start the projector.” Henry quietly obeyed. Linda would understand. He stayed late for work often. (But the cels weren’t finished, and how long exactly was Bendy going to keep him here, and what even _was_ Bendy and where was the studio going-)

The very first episode flashed up onto the wall.

“You can teach me everything,” Bendy murmured, as the characters chased each other around. 

“Yeah. Of course.” Henry’s voice sounded flat and relaxed, but he was anything but.

Bendy grasped his wrist, and the cold inky thumb pressed to his pulse. Henry’s breath trembled. He didn’t want to ask what Bendy was doing.

“Thud thud, thud thud,” Bendy said softly.

Henry wanted to be away from here. Anywhere but here.


	4. Henry

Bendy had forced him to sit on the floor, and now the demon was perched on his lap. Henry's legs had long since gone numb from holding the same position, but he didn't dare move. Bendy, meanwhile, seemed to be having the time of his life. He rocked to the music of every episode, and tapped his tail on the floor. Whenever characters spoke, Bendy echoed the words, evidently attempting to mimic both their voices and their tones.

He was not very good at imitating either of these, however, much as he was trying. Every line he echoed with excitement, even ones reflecting sadness, pain, or fear. It was jarring to hear, and prickled the hairs on Henry's arm. He didn't know if Bendy was simply a bad actor, or if he entirely lacked an understanding of verbal conveyance of human emotions.

Either way, Henry suspected that Bendy was doing precisely as he said he would be doing: learning. Assimilating. Gathering knowledge about how the world worked and how the 'characters' within it behaved. Except Henry didn't feel that a cartoon show was a solid basis for that education. The cartoon world and the real world were incomparably different.

Again and again Henry wondered exactly what Joey had done to bring this thing into the studio - and what they were going to do now that it was loose. ( _Loose_ seemed an apt way to describe a creature that shouldn't be part of this reality at all, a creature potentially dangerous, with little to restrain it should it decide to cause mischief.)

“Oo!” Bendy squealed and grabbed Henry’s wrist. “I love this episode!” It was _Show Stoppers_ , an episode that Henry had particularly enjoyed working on. In it, Bendy, Alice and Boris were invited to perform on stage for a crowd of hard-to-please dogs and humans. When the main three’s antics failed to impress, they upped their game by beckoning to inanimate objects around the stage and the showroom, invoking them to join in. Soon chairs and tables were summoned into sentience, and they seized the audience members, forcing them into a wild dance that was ultimately joined by plates, glasses, pictures from the walls, the piano – any and every object was likely to spring to life and join the dance, led by Bendy and on either side of him, Alice and Boris.

Henry initially had enjoyed making this silly display of cartoon physics. Watching with Bendy, he wasn’t so sure it was a nice episode anymore. The humans and dogs dragged along in the dance all wore expressions of terror, and their bodies were forcefully yanked and distorted every which way.

Bendy was delighted. His grip on Henry’s arm tightened.

"Bendy, that hurts,” Henry said thinly.

Normal people understood that as a signal to stop. Stop, enough, no more. Bendy did not seem to understand. The episode ended, and Bendy twisted around in Henry's lap. His eyes were round and inquisitive. "It hurts?"

"Yes. Let go, please."

Bendy looked down at his hand, wrapped around Henry's wrist. He seemed vaguely surprised.

"That's not letting go,” Henry uttered.

"'Course it's not, silly. I didn't say I was gonna."

"You need to." It was supposed to sound firm and came out frightened.

"I _need_ to?" Again, a sleight of words seemed to puzzle him. The bones in Henry's wrist were clenched. He'd never broken a bone in his life. In this moment, he felt deeply afraid he was about to find out what it was like.

Henry dared to grab Bendy's wrist in an effort to physically pry him off, and was shocked when he squeezed right _into_ Bendy's noodle-like arm: ink squelched between his fingers, flowed over his hand, and soon Henry was clutching nothing but black liquid. He yanked his hand away in horror, and Bendy's arm reformed, as if nothing had happened at all.

Bendy didn't seem the least bit surprised or concerned. In fact, he seemed much more shocked by the fact Henry’s arm _wasn’t_ doing that, no matter how he squeezed it. In the flickering light of the projector, Henry could see dark bruises blooming under his gloved fingertips.

"Humans are _weird_ ," Bendy said. "Does it still hurt?"

"Yes," Henry managed to say. "It hurts a lot."

The next episode had started, but Bendy was by now much more absorbed by Henry. He was studying his expression. “I can’t tell,” Bendy said.

“What?”

“That it hurts,” Bendy explained. “You’re not crying, or screaming, or shaking.”

“Sometimes pain is more subtle in real life.” Henry had never considered himself stoic, but it seemed like the pain in this case was falling under the same umbrella as his fear – it was being blanketed, disguised by a blank, emotionless response.

“I guess that makes sense,” Bendy said, and then finally, finally released his arm.

Henry jerked it protectively close to his chest. It hurt just to touch. It was scrawled with thick bruising already, and his wrist and hand were both chilly from his interrupted circulation.

Heavy breaths huffed from his lips. Okay. He was supposed to teach Bendy. “You shouldn’t grab people like that,” Henry said, and immediately felt that there was probably about ten different ways to have phrased that better, but he was having trouble thinking coherently.

“Why not?” Bendy asked, his attention back on the cartoons.

“Because it hurts people.”

“I know that now.” Bendy sounded excited about that fact. Not at all repentant. Then a few moments later, “it makes ya awfully easy to hurt, Henry. I was barely squeezin'.”

Henry fell silent. His heart thudded loud in his chest. He wanted to leave. Wanted desperately to leave.

The cartoon had absorbed Bendy’s attention entirely again. His tail tapped out rhythms on Henry’s thigh. He hummed on occasion, and repeated more lines. It seemed he didn’t want anything more from Henry, at least not at the moment. But Henry doubted he’d just be permitted to leave.

And then a bewildered smile peeked at the corners of Henry's lips – a smile entirely without amusement. How strange, being held captive by a small cartoon character, a character he himself had created.

“Are all people like that?” Bendy asked out of the blue.

“Huh?”

Gaze fixed on the projected images, Bendy clarified, “y’all are-“ he made an unclear gesture, “yanno, you’re not ink? You’re all that fragile?”

Henry wasn’t sure how he was supposed to answer. “…Yes?”

Bendy laughed. “Weird.”

Maybe to him it would be.

“So what are ya made of?” Bendy fingers trailed over Henry’s thigh, _much_ higher than was strictly appropriate.

“I like this episode,” Henry said, voice tight.

Bendy twisted around to meet his gaze again. So many of Bendy’s antics suggested a childlike mind, but when he was looking at Henry with this quiet, calculating look, Henry glimpsed a very dark and very old intelligence. Then it was gone with a smile. “All right, Henry, keep your secrets. But I’ll figure ya out. I’ll figure this world out.” He squeezed his thigh, turned back to the episodes.

Henry closed his eyes, took a steadying breath.

The next episodes passed in silence, blessedly. Finally the reel went black, the last episode concluded.

“Let’s watch them again!” Bendy leapt up.

“No-“

Bendy glanced at him. “Well, what else would we do?”

“Let’s go see Joey,” Henry said desperately. “Maybe he has some ideas.”

“But you’d know better, wouldn't ya?”

 _What_? At his blank expression, Bendy elaborated, “You’re the one who created me, Henry! You’re the one who makes these cartoons! It’s pretty obvious who’s got the biggest brain ‘round here.”

“Joey has a role in all the episodes…. He runs this st-“

But Bendy scoffed, “all right, all right, ain’t my fault ya can’t see you’re better than him, yeesh.”

 

 

 

Joey was hunched over his desk, buried beneath scrolls and parchments and books that looked old as dust.

His head popped up when they entered, and his eyes were wild behind his glasses. "Henry! How'd it go?"

Bendy meandered to the bookshelves and began pulling books off at random.

Henry jerked his head to the door and tried to convey in his pained expression that he needed to leave.

In response, Joey gesticulated meaninglessly, and Henry flinched. Could he really leave Joey alone with this thing? Yes, it was his own creation, and yes, Henry was growing increasingly resentful, but Bendy could be very dangerous: of that Henry had no doubt.

"I can't stay," Henry whispered weakly, and Bendy turned, eyes narrowing at the implication.

"You can't leave," Joey retorted, affronted. "Henry, you and I are in this together. He's yours. Did you show him around the studio?"

"Around the studio?" Bendy perked up.

"No, I - we watched the episodes, but-"

"Show me around the studio," Bendy said, trotting up to Henry with a book dangling from his fingers.

"Yes," Joey seconded. "Come on, Henry. It's only for one, maybe two nights."

Henry understood the implication. Joey wanted Henry to distract the demon while Joey tried to figure out a way to destroy or banish him. Joey seemed to feel this task would only take one or two days. Henry licked his lips and eyed Bendy's Cheshire grin. He had never had any interest with or fascination for the supernatural. Henry liked things simple, down to earth. Liked cartoons for their zany worlds safely captured on a piece of a paper. He didn't want anything to do with this.

"I'll need to call Linda," Henry said flatly.

"Of course, of course. In the backroom." Joey pointed.

Henry mutely entered the backroom, and ignored when Bendy trotted after him. Bendy watched with fascination as Henry lifted the phone from its cradle, and requested the operator to put him through to Linda.

She picked up almost immediately, and Henry felt like a snake as he told her in flat, practical tones that he was behind again, yes, yes, just need to pull one all nighter is all, yes, he was looking after himself, and no, no, it wasn't Joey's fault, Henry hadn't been on task is all.

Henry hung up the phone, and tried to wrap his head around the events going on.

Bendy, for his part, had been strangely cooperative and silent. When Henry looked around the room, he found the demon standing quietly by the door, watching Henry with a look that Henry very much did not like.

“Well, should we look around the studio?” everything felt rote and dreamlike. Like following a script in a dream.

With Bendy trailing, Henry wandered through the studio, pointing out all the different rooms and their purposes. He described the process of creating a cartoon, since Bendy seemed to have especial interest in that. He also seemed intrigued by the sheer number of people involved in making a cartoon, as he’d thought only Joey and Henry had been behind the thing.

Their journey ultimately led them to the Ink Machine. The ominous, hulking mass squatting in the center of the room. It was still on, but now emitted a low buzzing rather than its usual coughing pumping noises. Some idle state, maybe – perhaps Joey never powered it down fully. Henry himself didn’t understand anything about the mechanics of it, and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Bendy wandered up to it, and placed his hands against it. “Thud thud,” he murmured, much as he had done for Henry’s pulse.

“Is this how Joey created you?” Henry realized slowly, and didn’t understand why the thought hadn’t occurred to him before. It wasn’t as if the Ink Machine was doing anything else.

“More or less,” Bendy replied. “Really I’m part of the machine. Or it’s part of me, at least.” With his hands still on the machine, he said, “Like this, I can feel through all the studio. Much better than your little tour.”

The hairs on Henry’s arm prickled. “Feel through the studio?”

“Mhmm.” Bendy closed his eyes. “Can see every room.” Then Bendy went very very still. Not for the first time, Henry was unnerved by the fact the little demon didn’t breathe.

Bendy’s eyes snapped open. “There’s someone else here.”

Someone else-? But who would be here after hours? “Joey?”

“Nah, he’s in his office trying to figure out how to get rid of me. There’s someone else – maybe one of the other animators? I’d better go say hi!” His grin meant nothing good.

Then before Henry could process it (much less stop it), Bendy crawled into the Ink Machine and vanished into the pipes.


	5. Wally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This applies more to the previous chapter but - I started writing this story prior to the remastered BATIM. For that reason, the studio is a mix between the old and remastered versions. As much as I love the Ink Machine being on chains, and able to be raised and lowered, the Ink Machine in this story is grounded and stays in one place (for the most part...). Otherwise, I'll be trying to follow the remastered designs, though the layout is somewhat changed to suit the story.

Wally Franks was just trying to do his job.

Trouble was, he was working for a maniac. Joey Drew, well, from the very start Wally had known something was off about him. Something not right in his head. But in these times, a job was a job. A man’s gotta make a living somehow – especially a man with a daughter and a wife! Anyway, seemed like it’d be a swell to be around people making cartoons all day, right?

Well, not quite. Sure, maybe it if was a _normal_ studio. But boy, if Wally had learned anything, it was that this studio was _far_ from normal.

Normal studios didn’t have whopping Ink Machines, for starters. The thing was like a parasite, pipes branching out through all the walls and rooms. It made noise like nobody’s business, chugging and pumping all day long. It unnerved him to no end, if Wally was telling the truth - he wouldn't mind its presence so much if it didn't feel like a living breathing thing, if it didn't feel like it was _watching_ him.

Pipes would also burst left and right and Wally would be the one stuck trying to clean it all up. That’s how he got into this whole disaster in the first place. See, he’d been two minutes from clocking out when a pipe on the lower floor in the infirmary had burst. If he’d left it, the ink could have spread and ruined the floor as well as all the equipment in that room. It wasn’t ideal to stay after hours, but he’d do it (of course, Wally didn't understand why there should be ink pipes in the _infirmary_ , of all places...)

At any rate, he powered down the machine like Thomas had showed him (privately, he felt grateful for its life-like thumping to finally quiet). He went to get his cleaning supplies, only to find his mop gone. He hurried through the studio hunting for it, haranguing coworkers on their way out to ask if they’d seen it, only to finally hail down Sammy, who told him in clipped tones that some of the guys in the warehouse had taken it.

Before Wally could go down to the warehouse, Thomas came running in, roaring that he hadn’t shut off that machine properly and now pressure was building in the pipes in the first floor –

Well, that was a fiasco. Turned out Wally had twisted one of the dials to the wrong number, but with Thomas’ help they got everything sorted out before another pipe could burst.

Thomas finally stomped out of the studio huffing, and Wally hurried down to the warehouse. Sure enough, he found his mop, but it wasn’t exactly clean anymore – they must have spilled something: something clear, sharp-smelling and sticky. Frustrated, Wally washed it to the best of his ability, and then returned to the ruined pipe on the lower floor.

It was some time later before he had most of the ink up, and that’s when the oddest thing happened.

A shiver ran down his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and a feeling swooped into his mind: a feeling a lot like leaning over the side of a cliff. Wally thought _ghost?_ before he had to laugh at himself.

Then he turned around and his jaw dropped.

“Hi,” Bendy said.

Bendy. The little cartoon devil from the cartoons. Except he wasn’t on any reel, not on any projected image. He was standing there just like anyone. Wally had to be dreaming, or those ink fumes were getting to him-

“Aren’t ya gonna say hi?” Bendy asked. “You recognize me, don’t ya? I mean sure, you and I have never met before, but – ya gotta see the resemblance, right?” Bendy gestured at himself and smiled. He seemed to be waiting for something.

“Bendy?” Wally said in disbelief, then scrubbed at his eyes. The illusion didn’t disappear.

“Yes!” Bendy jumped for joy, and snapped his fingers. “I dunno why everyone hesitates! But ya got there in the end. I like you.”

Wally couldn't stop staring. Was this some prank? He’d be more inclined to believe that if Bendy didn’t look so eerily real, or if his mere presence didn’t sit all wrong in Wally’s bones. Of all the words that could have stumbled out of his mouth, he said, “ _what are you_?”

Bendy’s expression darkened. Something instinctive and primal told Wally he should put as much distance between himself and the demon as possible. “We just covered that. I'm _Bendy_. Nothing else. And there ain’t no point asking who _you_ are. You’re just a background character; I can tell. Not important or nothin’.”

“Come on, Wally,” Wally muttered to himself, “get yourself together. This isn’t real.”

“Yeah, my creator definitely didn’t mention no Wally. But this _is_ real.” Bendy started coming closer, a smile on his face that didn’t look right. “Gotta say, I was hopin’ to meet someone important – yanno, maybe Alice or Boris? But I guess you're all right, too.”

That’s when Wally decided, dream or no dream, he didn’t want this thing anywhere near him.

His legs sent him skittering backwards, but his foot snagged on the mop handle and sent him sprawling onto his butt. 

Bendy burst out laughing.

“S-stay back!” Wally lurched to his feet, and brandished the mop (which he only belated realized wasn’t going to be a very good weapon).

“Aw. Henry didn’t run away or try to fight.”

Henry? The studio artist? He’d seen Bendy - and if so, where was he now? “Did you kill him?” Wally gasped.

Bendy snorted. “Kill him? Why do ya think I’d do that?”

For a fraction of a second, Wally felt stupid. He was overreacting, letting his superstitions get the best of him, as he all too often did. This Bendy was probably part of the company’s plans for the future, right? (Wally ignored the internal voice that demanded to know how _artificially_ _creating life_  was part of the company, or part of _reality_ ). But Bendy was small, and innocuous, and there was no reason to be so frightened of him when there was nothing threatening about him, right? Nothing except the invisible aura that surrounded him, but that was probably just Wally being paranoid. 

Then Bendy continued, “Nah, I wouldn’t kill my creator, but background characters like you – well, that might be fun. Hey, how do humans die?”

Oh. Wally dropped his mop and pelted for the exit.

“I’m just curious!” he heard Bendy yell after him; Wally tried to pour on the speed. He'd never been much of a runner, and the tools on his belt were banging around and hitting his thighs painfully, but all he cared about was getting out. He whipped around the corner and raced past crisp white posters, chairs littered with sketches, and a towering set of drawers crammed with pens and paper. 

Now Wally knew this part of the studio well, and he knew that he was supposed to be coming up on the staircase that would lead him to the exit. Except he stumbled through the archway and there was no staircase. In fact, he was back in the room with the burst pipe. Exactly where he had started. His heart lurched.

"Sorry," Bendy said, "I don't think I'm very good at running, so I thought, 'hey, why not move the studio around instead!' If ya keep trying to escape, you're just gonna end up back here."

Real life didn't work that way. This had to be a nightmare. But the terror felt very, very real. Panting, Wally bolted back the way he had come, passing the drawers, chairs, posters -

Bendy was there at the end of the hall, as was the burst pipe. He waved. "C'mon Wally, I just want to learn a bit about humans. Like what their insides look like."

There was no way this was happening. It felt childish to do, but Wally pinched his arm, and still nothing changed. "Please don't kill me," Wally begged, feeling both absurd and terrified about pleading such a thing to a cartoon character. Bendy couldn't even be over three feet tall, but there was something so  _wrong_ about him, sinister in a way Wally couldn't describe. “I’ve got a wife, and a daughter - she's just three, and I can't- , I’m just trying to make a living, please Bendy-“

“Wow, I like how that sounds. This is fear, isn’t it?”

“Wh-what?”

“I was a lil mixed up,” Bendy explained, “But I think I’ve got it now.” He pointed at Wally. “ _That’s_ fear.”

He was right, but Wally didn’t know what to say in response. Maybe honesty? “I _am_ scared,” Wally said shakily, “I really don’t wanna die. Please just let me go, all right? Put the studio back to normal?" Wally's brain was having trouble wrapping around the idea that Bendy had somehow  _changed_ the studio, as if real life architecture could be moved and rearranged as easily as places in cartoons.

“Wow, tempting, but nah."

Wally skittered away before Bendy could grab him. He careened back down the hallway, with Bendy calling out after him in irritation. He just passed the set of drawers when a pipe burst in front of him and thick black ink sprayed over the wall and floor - Wally yelped and backed up, because however irrational it sounded, that dark ink right now gave him the same dread that the demon did.  _Just jump over the ink, come on, Wally_ , he tried to tell himself. He'd certainly cleaned up the stuff a billion times before. Never had a problem walking through it or stepping over it. But now the strangest images were popping into his head, images of being grabbed, yanked down into a shapeless abyss, suffocated by viscous foul-smelling ink. 

"What's wrong?" a voice chirped behind him. "Can't get over a little ink?"

Wally shakily turned. "Bendy, you're supposed to be good. To make people laugh."

Wally had the distinct impression he'd said the wrong thing. The demon grit out, "I do. I  _could._ I can." Then, tail lashing, "look, Bendy plays pranks - he's a mischievous guy! - maybe this is just that, a prank."

He was trying very hard to fit this in the narrative of the cartoons, but Wally was pretty sure Bendy in the cartoons had never taken pranks so far as to get somebody hurt. While Wally kept this to himself, Bendy seemed to understand what he was thinking.

"Fine," Bendy growled, "You're just a background character, Wally; I don't think ya know anything about Bendy anyway. Let's skip right to the main event."

Bendy stepped forward, and Wally simply  _reacted_. He yanked the wrench from his belt and swung it hard.

The metal collided with Bendy's head. Ink sprayed. In fact, to Wally's shock, Bendy's entire form instantaneously turned to liquid ink, which splattered across the floor and wall. One moment he was there, the next moment - nothing but a puddle of ink.

For a second, Wally panted, breathless, staring at the ink puddle. Had he done it? 

Then a white gloved hand streaked with lines of black ink emerged from the puddle. After it followed an arm, horns, a head, and soon Bendy clambered up, while the ink puddle shrank away into nothing. 

"Wow," Bendy said, "You surprised me, and I just lost my form entirely, huh? Gotta work on that. Seems kinda inconvenient."

Wally backed away. 

"My turn," Bendy said. Before Wally could stop him, he darted in and grabbed the wrench. He was, Wally found, much stronger. It took no effort for him to jerk the wrench right out of Wally's hands. 

Wally had the sense to leap out of the way. The wrench clipped his shin bone, which exploded with pain, but it was much milder than whatever Bendy was intending. Wally landed in the ink puddle and then fresh terror shot through him like electricity. He sprang back out and skittered around Bendy only to find that the other side of the hall was now blocked with ink, too. Without thinking, he half-limped half-ran to the bureau, and used the brass knobs to clamber up. 

Wally huddled at the top of the drawers, squashed a bit between that and the ceiling, but maybe Bendy couldn't get him from here- Then Wally felt very ridiculous, perched on the furniture like a cowering child. But he wasn't going to get down.  

“What did you climb up there for?” Bendy asked, a laugh bubbling up as he twirled the wrench. 

Wally curled into himself, as if Bendy might forget he was there if he got small enough. “Stay away from me!”

Bendy tapped his foot. “You’re gonna have to get down sooner or later.”

“No,” Wally said tightly. He’d stay right here, thank you very much.

“Aw, really? Well, if that’s the case, guess I gotta come up after ya, huh?”

“Don’t-!”

But Bendy gloved hands grabbed a drawer and he began to climb.

"Stop!" somebody yelled, but it wasn't Wally.

Wally and Bendy both about-faced. A very harried looking man, with an ill-fitting stained white shirt and hair sticking up everywhere, was just stepping out of the ink puddle. 

"Oh, hi Henry," Bendy greeted. "Shoot, I wasn't paying attention, and I let the staircase come back, didn't I?"

Henry, right. The studio artist Bendy had mentioned earlier. The gaze he fixed upon Bendy was oddly blank, vaguely confused. "The staircase...?"

"Well, that's all right," Bendy continued. "You're welcome ta watch. I was just about to learn how to kill somebody, Henry!"

Henry tensed, but his expression betrayed very little, and Wally was getting honestly alarmed by his lack of reaction. "Henry," Wally squeaked, "please help me  _pleasestophim what'sgoingonhere."_

"He sounds like a girl when he gets scared," Bendy said, giggling and apparently not realizing the irony in his own high pitched voice, "Wally's doin' real good about showing me what this fear is all about-" This said, he started climbing up the drawers again.

" _Henry_!" Wally yelped.

Henry darted in, reached out as if to grab Bendy, and then hesitated. Why wasn't he _doing_ anything? Was he even concerned at all? 

“Your episodes,” Henry said out of nowhere, while Wally crammed himself against the wall. “Let’s watch them again, Bendy; you wanted to do that, right?”

“Nu-uh, we can watch ‘em after I make Wally a skeleton.”

Wally was confused by Bendy’s impression of how death worked, but he was a little too worried about the whole dying part to care much. " _Henry get him away from me!"_

“Or,” Henry said, “the Music Department! Where all the music for your show is made! We didn't visit there yet, and it's just around the corner.”

Bendy paused and Wally could tell he’d gotten the demon’s attention. He barely dared to breathe, and he sent intense silent gratitude Henry’s way. He'd forgive Henry completely for his lack of outward emotional response, if only Henry would manage to get Bendy away from him.

“Don’t you want to see the instruments?” Henry asked.

“I do,” Bendy said thoughtfully. 

Wally wanted to speak, to encourage Bendy  _away_ , but he was afraid of getting the demon's attention directed on him again.

"I can show you." Henry held out his hand, looking awkward and very much like he'd rather touch fire than Bendy. 

Bendy's regard swerved from Henry, up to Wally, back down to Henry. 

"The music is the backbone of any cartoon," Henry said. "It sets the tone and the emotion - think about  _Show Stoppers;_ what would that episode be without music? And we do all the music right here in the studio - the - the composing, and lyrics, and the orchestra playing it- we've got all the instruments-"

Wally was struck by the weird thought that Henry sounded a whole lot like Joey just then. 

"Ookaayy," Bendy said slowly. "I  _know_ you're manipulatin' me, Henry; just wanna make that clear." Bendy's tail flicked, and excitement bubbled under the surface of his words, "buuut, wow, I didn't really think 'bout how important the music was before."

"Yes," Henry seized on that, "without the music, the cartoons wouldn't make it very far at all."

"All right, all right, you can stop sellin' it like Joey." Bendy wrapped his fingers around Henry's offered hand, and he hopped to the floor. He didn't let go of his hand. "Hey Wally, we can talk later. I gotta learn a thing or two about music." 

He started tugging Henry from the hall, and Henry cast a look back, a worried look that very much said  _get out of here._

"Wait," Wally whispered, "what- what's going on here-"

And then they were turned the corner and gone. 

Wally was left alone, coiled at the top of the bureau. His heart was thumping a mile a minute, and his mind was struggling to grasp everything that had just happened. If not for his smarting shin, he would have wondered if any of it had happened at all.  

Questions swarmed in his head, about how Bendy was created, how Henry knew about it, what was going to happen next -

Then new fear invaded. If he hadn't been safe, was there any guarantee Henry would be? Wally nearly bit through his lip. He had only ever seen Henry in passing before now, but if something happened to him because Wally bailed...

"Just go home, Wally," he told himself sternly, and shakily descended from the drawers. "Henry's got it handled. That's a demon, Wally, what can someone like you do about that? Just go home."

Wally picked up his wrench, hooked it back on his belt, and then stood quivering in the middle of the hall. "Go home," he whispered to himself.

 


	6. Henry

Bendy liked the piano. He liked it so much, actually, that he had spent the last ten minutes banging violently on it and laughing maniacally. Henry was fairly certain something was going to end up broken, but that was a quiet little anxiety tucked behind the raw terror that Bendy was going to end up killing someone.

Oh god, the poor janitor. Henry couldn't recall the man’s name – Will, maybe? – as they had only met briefly, and seen each other in passing. But Henry felt awful that he’d been terrorized for no other reason than the fact he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Of course Henry had realized that Bendy was dangerous, but he hadn’t foreseen that the demon’s first response upon meeting somebody would be to _kill_ them. It had never been more obvious that he was not safe to be around. Probably not for Henry, and certainly not for anyone else.

The piano crashed and wailed. Bendy either didn’t know the first thing about the instrument, or didn’t care – most likely both.

Henry, who was sitting in one of the chairs for the orchestra, put his face in his good hand and exhaled shakily. The reality of the situation was sinking in and he almost wished it wouldn't. God, what were they going to do? Henry prayed that Joey was finding success up in his office, but until he did…

Well, they couldn't let anybody else in the studio. That much was clear. Tomorrow was a Thursday, but they’d have to give everyone the day off. They’d put a notice on the door, maybe, saying that there was a gas leak or something… Yes, that would probably be fine. Give Joey more time to work out a solution.

Not for the first time, Henry wondered exactly _how_ Joey had created him in the first place. It was a tired, exasperated thought mired in the question of _why_. It was getting harder and harder to feel any iota of sympathy for Joey. The man had so much going for him, and time and time again, he wasted it, ruined everything he was building. Henry prayed this wasn’t going to be like that. He hoped Joey would find a way to get rid of this thing and that the studio could just go back to normal…

It took Henry a second to realize there was silence. His head jerked up, fresh panic shooting through his body–

But no, the demon was still standing on the piano bench. He was deathly silent. His fingers were delicately skimming over the keys, too softly to depress them.

Okay. He was petting the keys. Weird, but harmless.

As if sensing Henry’s regard, Bendy looked his way. “Teach me how to play.”

“I don’t know how,” Henry replied honestly.

“Does Wally?”

“No,” Henry said, although he had no idea one way or another. _Wally. The janitor’s name was Wally, that’s it._

“Joey?”

“No.”

“Who can teach me?”

Henry wasn’t going to drag anybody else into this, not even by mention of their name: if he did, Bendy would want to find them, and Henry needed to keep the demon far away from everyone else. “You’ll have to learn on your own. Maybe use some of the sheet music around?”

Bendy was quiet.

“Look,” Henry said, rubbing the migraine blossoming in his temple, “I’m sorry. But nobody here can teach you.”

Bendy hopped off the piano bench. There was just the patter of his feet as he trotted over the hardwood floor. Then his white-gloved fingers curled over Henry’s thigh; Henry’s swollen and tender wrist throbbed in the memory of being crushed.

“Henry,” Bendy said.

Henry made a noise that could have been a word but was aborted too soon.

“The music is the backbone of any cartoon,” Bendy echoed. He carefully enunciated each word, doing his best to imitate Henry’s diction. “It sets the tone and the emotion - think about _Show Stoppers_ ; what would that episode be without music?”

Oh.

Bendy squeezed his thigh and smiled up at him. “C’mon Henry, who does the music ‘round here?”

Undoubtedly it would be Sammy he’d be interested in. Henry often collaborated with Sammy, out of necessity rather than desire, because the musical compositions must fit the animations. Sammy was stubborn and haughty, vehemently insisting that his ideas were right with no room for compromise. On more than one occasion, Joey himself had to come in to enforce more flexibility.

Henry shuddered to imagine Bendy meeting such a person. However he felt about Sammy Lawrence, Henry didn’t want him hurt or dead.

“A lot of people work on the music,” Henry settled on, “That’s how everything in the studio is. No one person does everything.”

Again, Bendy was silent. Henry’s heart thudded. “You’ll have to learn on your own,” Henry finished weakly.

“Where is everyone?” Bendy asked.

“What?” Henry said, though he understood Bendy perfectly.

Bendy gestured to the empty room. “Where is everyone?”

“They’re um-“ Henry coughed. “Well, they don’t work all the time. They’re not at work right now.”

“When are they coming back? I want to meet them. Every one.”

“They’re not coming back.” Then, stumbling to recover, “W-well, not soon. It’s just Joey and I here. And um, Wally, but he was on his way out. Everyone else is on a long break.” Or would be, as soon as Henry could get a sign up on the front door.

“They should work all the time.”

Henry managed a faltering smile. “Joey would probably agree with you,” and then he immediately regretted it because Bendy sent him a very cold look, and white-gloved fingers reached for Henry’s swollen wrist.

“Don’t-!” Instinctively, Henry grabbed Bendy’s hand to stop him, and although Bendy easily could have forced it, the demon paused.

It was frightening to touch him. The ink was cold but strangely electric, unmistakably alive. The sight of a human hand twined with the four-fingered cartoon one was bizarre, mind-breaking. It didn’t feel real.

Bendy studied their joined hands, as if he were thinking the same thing, but Henry very much doubted Bendy thought anything sane.

“Please don’t,” Henry whispered.

Bendy jerked away, and the moment was over. “Fine. You complain a lot, Henry. I’m gettin’ real tired of it.”

That was, thankfully, all, as the demon then wandered over to the other instruments scattered around the room. Henry exhaled shakily. He dreaded to imagine what Bendy would do if he decided to not listen anymore. It seemed the only thing stopping him was the fact Henry was his creator (or the creator of the _original_ Bendy at least), but that felt like such a thin gossamer that Bendy could easily choose to tear through.

However, now that the imminent danger had passed, Henry’s exhaustion returned. It was late, had been a painfully long adrenaline-packed day, and this was coming on the heels of several nights with minimal sleep, owing to the fact he was behind on work…. Now everything was put on hold, Henry supposed. They’d be even more behind on deadlines, but Henry was having a hard time caring overly much at the moment.

Bendy twanged the strings of the violin. He was much gentler with the string instruments than the piano, and that was good, Henry thought distantly. He stayed there for a while, listening to the different notes thoughtfully.

Henry found it hard to keep his eyes open.

Bendy wandered to the banjo.

Henry’s head dipped, then jerked up as he shook himself awake. Bendy was still at the banjo, plucking away and creating something that involved notes but could not be called a song. Bendy was whistling softly to himself – the theme for his cartoon, Henry realized. He was trying (badly) to recreate it on the banjo.

Henry’s head dipped again. His thoughts turned to molasses. His body felt heavy.

Some time later, he snapped awake, his neck and back sore from the stiff chair, and hunger gnawing at his stomach. For a befuddled moment he wondered why he wasn’t at his desk. Then he thought _Bendy_ and scrambled out of the chair, heart pounding.

The demon wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Henry swore. How much time had – he checked his watch. 4:15 AM. He didn’t know exactly when he had fallen asleep, but it hadn’t been anywhere close to 4 AM, he was sure of it.

“Bendy?” he cried out.

There was a crash – up in the projectionist’s booth. Henry tore out of the recording studio, whipped around the corner, and practically flew up the stairs to the projectionist’s booth, his sleep-foggy brain painting horrible pictures of the trouble Bendy could be getting into.

Bendy looked up. “Oh, hi, Henry.”

Henry slumped against the wall in relief.

The demon was sitting on the floor, piles of film reels scattered around him, some of them with their film unwound and tangled up. Nothing looked torn though, nothing ruined or broken, and most of all, nobody hurt. Unwound reels, which once would drive Henry up the wall for the pain of rewinding them, didn’t bother him at all now. They were fixable.

“I’m figurin’ out the projector,” Bendy explained. “I wanted to watch an episode and play music with it. I’m glad you’re not dead anymore, Henry-boy; ya had me worried.”

“Dead?” Henry said faintly, still dizzy from relief (or perhaps hunger. He hadn’t eaten since lunch).

“Sure. You weren’t movin’. Just up and died down there. But I thought ya might come back, since there was that one episode where Boris got ran over and squashed flat, but he made it through all right. Oh, and the episode where-”

“I was sleeping,” Henry said.

“Oh, oh!” Bendy snapped his fingers. “Shoot, I should have known that. Anyway, can ya help me out with these reels?”

“Yes – no-“

Bendy squinted at him. “Ya okay there, Henry?”

If it was 4 AM, then workers would be arriving in a mere few hours. He needed to put a sign on the door telling people to go back home. Only trouble was that he couldn’t do that with Bendy watching. If Bendy was so excited to see all the other studio workers, he wouldn't be very pleased about Henry deliberately preventing them from coming to work.

There was the option of just leaving Bendy here and hoping he wouldn’t wander off. He seemed to do okay while Henry was sleeping, but the idea of purposely trusting that to fate was comical.

The other option was bringing Bendy to Joey, which he didn’t feel great about, but it would only be for about five minutes: enough time for him to scrounge up a sign, scribble on it, and hang it on the outside of the door.

Yes, that was probably the only reasonable choice. “Maybe we should check in on Joey.”

“Oh sure yeah,” Bendy said, “Maybe he’s found a way to get rid of me, right?”

“That’s not-“

“Save it. My own creator wants to kill me! Really breaks a guy’s heart.”

Henry didn’t know what to say, and Bendy laughed at his blank expression. “Hey, don’t dwell on it, Henry. If we’re bein’ totally honest-“ Bendy’s smile was coy, “I kinda wanna kill you, too.”

Oh. Henry swallowed.

“Tell ya what,” Bendy said, “I’ll come with ya to see Joey, but you gotta promise to show me how to work this thing after.” Bendy held up a fistful of film tape. “And then you gotta play the piano and I’ll play the drum.”

“Yeah,” Henry said. “I’ll do that.”

 

 

 

Joey’s office was tucked away on the first floor, after a labyrinthine set of twists and turns: it wasn’t the most accessible of places, and Henry figured that was done by design. Joey had once ranted about how needy his employees could be. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine he didn’t want to be found by them unless he intended to be.

At any rate, Henry wound his way towards this office. Bendy trotted at his side, fingers linked with Henry, whistling and half skipping while Henry felt tense and rigid. He was trying to work out what to say – how to impress upon Joey the gravity of the situation, and what had nearly happened to Wally – when Bendy cheerily kicked open Joey’s office door.

The door bounced off the wall and Henry stopped it midswing from smacking him in the face.

There was a yelp from inside the office; Joey’s spindly form jerked, glass shattered.

“Henry!” Joey exclaimed in shock.

Henry froze in the doorway.

“You were s’pposed to uh-“ Joey waved incoherently, his words slurring together and his eyes unfocused behind his glasses. There was no mistaking the smell in the room. “be elsewhere,” Joey finished lamely.

“Are you _drunk_?”

“ _No_. No.” Joey licked his thin lips and patted the books arrayed around him, “I’m researching, I just – it was only a few – I’m making progress, Henry, progress like you wouldn’t believe- liquid motivation, that’s all-“

God damnit. Henry dug his palms into his temples. He almost immediately regretted this when his hurt wrist flared with fresh pain.

“Is this acetone?” Bendy was by Joey’s desk, picking up a shard of glass and touching the liquid dripping from it.

“It’s not acetone, Bendy, drop the glass-“ Henry started.

“I’m not drunk,” Joey iterated, louder this time. “I needed a pick-me-up, something to keep me going. You understand, Henry, I-“

“I dunno, Henry, this kinda does the same thing,” white ink dribbled off Bendy’s glove and mixed with the alcohol staining the floor.

“It’s not like I started _immediately_ -“ Joey was groping at the spokes of his wheelchair, trying and failing to put distance between himself and Bendy, “I just – it was, um-“

Bendy found a larger shard of glass, and Henry finally found words. He bit out, “Joey, someone almost died.”

“What?” Joey finally looked Henry’s way, though his eyes overshot and drifted back.

Once the words started coming, Henry couldn't stop it, “somebody almost died and you were up here getting drunk? You’re the one who’s supposed to fix this! And while you’re messing around, people are getting hurt-“ Henry yanked down his sleeve and displayed the bruised mess of his wrist.

“Yeah, Joey, people are getting hurt,” Bendy echoed, twining his fingers in the spokes of the wheelchair. He tightened his grip on the glass.

“Do you care?” Henry spat out. “Or are you ready to throw away people’s lives and this entire studio just like you - Bendy NO!”

The jagged glass reared back to gouge into Joey’s leg – Joey cried out, Henry lunged - but Bendy stopped before any damage could be done.

“Hey, what’s wrong Henry? Ain’t this how it’s done?”

“Let go of the glass.”

Bendy dropped the shard to the floor, chuckling, “I thought we were doin’ some kinda interrogation, where you act all fierce, and I bring the _pain_. Sorry Henry, ya must have been playing a different scene out.”

“N-no. No.” Henry shook his head, overwhelmed. "This isn't _fiction_ -"

“Who almost died?” Joey squeaked.

“Wally,” Henry replied tiredly. “Bendy wanted to kill him.”

“I did,” smiled Bendy. “I'll get right back to that after we play with the instruments.”

"And you," Henry said, glaring at Joey, "we're getting rid of all this crap. You keep it here, don't you?" He had to, if he hadn't left the studio all night.

"What? Henry, you don't know what you're saying - I just got attacked; you can't go throwing away-"

Henry started rifling through things, trying to find where Joey might have a stash of booze, while he avoided the glass pieces covering the floor.

“This is really unnecessary,” Joey said, reaching after his cane and then unsteadily trying to get to his feet only to collapse back into his chair. “I don’t keep it in this room-“

Henry turned to the desk and started opening and closing the drawers.

“Stop, this is my own personal private-“

Then the bottom right drawer, the deepest one, snagged. Locked.

Henry’s expression hardened. “Joey-“

“That’s enough!” Anger burned through the haze, though when Joey used the desk to stagger to his feet, he swayed. His eyes were red and furious. "What I keep in this studio is my business. I'll remind you that you work for _me_ , and that can change at any moment."

There was a sharp, tense silence. Bendy whistled, and murmured, " _drama!_ "

"Watch him," Henry said shortly. "I'll be back." He slammed the door behind him. God, he was shaking. He'd never yelled at Joey before. Hell, he'd never really yelled at anyone. Henry shook himself, and strode down the hall. Joey had always had some problems, specifically self-destructive problems. But he'd never gotten so angry at Henry, and he'd never threatened to fire him... 

This whole ordeal had everyone messed up. Henry gathered himself together, assuring himself that Joey's behavior was a result of drinking and stress. He couldn't imagine any other reason why Joey would have snapped like that, would have gotten so sensitive over a habit that Henry already knew about... Yes, it had to be the drinking and stress.

Already worry was eating through any lingering anger. He didn't want to leave Bendy alone with Joey long, so he needed to make this quick. Henry dug into the supply closet and pulled out a thick sheaf of paper. On it he hastily wrote:

GAS LEAK. NO ENTRY.   
NO WORK THURSDAY FRIDAY

\- Joey Drew

Simple but effective. Everyone would be glad to get the days off, wouldn't think twice. Henry used thick staples to attach it to the studio's front door. Joey might complain later about ruining the door with staple holes, but Henry was more concerned about the sign staying on and people staying alive than a couple of holes in the door. With this done, Henry closed the door and locked it from the inside for good measure. 

There. Now nobody else would be entering the studio.

Right?

 


	7. Joey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags.

Joey Drew trusted Henry because Henry didn’t ask many questions – and when he did, he was easily talked over. Hell, Henry was a pushover: that was his best trait! He was a good-hearted soft-spoken pushover. So where the hell had that outburst come from?

Seething and shaking, Joey collapsed back into his wheelchair. It wasn’t Henry’s place to fight back, or to rifle in Joey’s private things – and damn it, that had been too close. There were things he wouldn't trust to even Henry: things he wouldn't trust to anyone. And now reliable Henry had the nerve to go investigating. For a different reason, obviously: it was the alcohol he’d been after, but the reason didn’t matter if the result was the same. The point was Henry was supposed to be quiet and obedient.

They’d been through so much, had each other’s backs, and they’d started this whole company together – after all that, Henry was trying to turn on him? Sure, sure, Joey got it: Henry was pissed he’d been drinking, but Joey had only started after several hours of mulling over these texts! He’d been working hard up here. The books were dense and anything but straightforward. Anybody would need a break.

Gritting his teeth, Joey snatched a half-empty bottle from his desk. It was all his own brew, because he’d blown through everything he’d stockpiled years ago, and nothing the bootleggers sold tasted right. His was stronger, anyway. A man in his situation needed something stronger.

Joey took several large gulps, because Bendy was staring at him from across the room and his eyes were cold and dark. Joey hated him. Hated the deep malevolence that the demon carried with him. It suffused the entire room and made the hairs on his arms stand up. Joey had a terrible conviction that this monster knew everything about himself that he wanted nobody to ever know. It was fitting. A gesture from the gods, giving him his own ink-drowned albatross for punishment. One that was trying to drive him and Henry apart.

Bendy let out a sharp, startled laugh. “You’re _drinking_ it! Wow, it doesn’t eat right through your stomach?”

“'Course not.” Henry better come back quick. Joey couldn't stand being alone with this thing. Where the hell had Henry gone anyway? What was more important than distracting the demon while Joey worked? It was him who had said Bendy nearly killed someone! Why would he leave it with Joey, who almost singlehandedly brought this company to fame?

“Really? Gee, humans must be really tough. I never would have guessed, because Henry seemed pretty breakable.”

Breakable.  _Breakable._ Why couldn't Bendy have been the lovable _harmlessly_ mischievous guy Henry had sketched up? 

“Hey, is this what you’re gonna try to kill me with now?” Bendy asked, gesturing to the bottles. “’Cause it’s a little like the acetone.”

“No, I'd never do that, Bendy. I'd never - wouldn't hurt a fly." It wasn’t as if the acetone had worked. Joey put the bottle to his lips and treasured the burn down his throat. Christ, the acetone hadn’t done anything but make Bendy angry. Joey wasn’t going to repeat that.

"Joey, ya tried to kill me the second ya saw me. Barely even got to say hi. You're just a liar."

Bendy was wandering closer, and Joey interjected, “Henry’s on his way back. Any minute now. He’ll take you down to the Music Department – the - the instruments, right? That's what you said. You’ll – you’ll have a blast, Bendy, all the instruments that go into each episode! How’s that sound!” His words really weren’t coming out clear. 

“Henry ain’t on his way back yet.” Bendy kicked the drawer – _that_ drawer – and it rattled hollowly. “What’s in here, Joey? You sure got upset when Henry tried to open it.”

Joey’s spine crawled. “Papers, pens, the likes.” Bendy knew. He had to know.

“Papers.” Bendy said. “Pens.” He grabbed the handle.

“What are y-“

“The likes.” He yanked, hard.

“Stop it!” Joey jolted to swat Bendy away, but the sharp movement lurched his stomach. Meanwhile, Bendy’s tug made the entire desk scrape a few inches over the floor.

“Drat,” Bendy inspected the locked drawer thoughtfully.

“That’s off lim-urgh-” It was the talking that ruined him. Joey twisted and vomited over the side of his wheelchair.

“Eeeeeww, your guts are all over the floor!”

The burning mucus-riddled liquid gummed up his nose and throat. Christ, his head hurt and he felt disgusting. “Great,” Joey muttered through a thick, uncooperative tongue. He spat.

The desk rattled; Joey realized Bendy was still trying to get into the drawer.

“Stop that,” Joey snarled, wiping his nose, blue eyes flashing behind his glasses. “I - I get it. I surrender. You can stop torturing me- they – you’re my punishment. For all the sins I’ve committed, the awful things I’ve done – you were sent up from hell to torment me -“ Joey imagined he could see the eyes of his gods, those youthful beautiful gods judging him.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Bendy’s voice warbled through the fog, high-pitched and painful, “you’ve got an inflated sense of importance there, pal. I ain’t here _for_ you. It’s your _fault_ I’m here, but that’s something else entirely.”

Joey tilted his head up, fighting down the urge to throw up again.

A lock clicked.

“How did you-“ Joey started, and then Bendy was reaching into the drawer.

“It’s just a buncha pictures,” Bendy said, sounding disappointed. He didn’t seem to understand.

Joey froze, breathless. So Bendy _didn’t_ know. The eyes of the gods watched him. But maybe this demon didn't know everything they did. “Yes,” Joey dared to say, and guilt churned in his chest. But it was necessary. “Only pictures.”

Bendy glanced at him in confusion. “Why’d Henry care about pictures?”

“About that?” Joey laughed; it was too loud, without a doubt, but Bendy wouldn't know the difference, would he? “Henry doesn’t – doesn’t care a lick about that. He was looking for my booze! Pictures - what good will those do!”

“Yeah.” Puzzled, Bendy picked up the Joey’s Rolleiflex and turned it over in his hands. When this proved uninteresting, he rifled through the pictures again. “Boy, these kids really don’t look happy, Joey.”

“You - you know how kids are,” Joey said faintly.

Bendy laughed. “Nah, I really don’t know.”

“Well, kids, kids get unhappy very easily-“

“Oh hey, you’re in this one.” Bendy waved a photo. "Aren't humans supposed to wear clothes?"

Joey was nauseous. His heart thundered. His knobby fingers shook; his blue eyes flicked to the door. Any second Henry could walk in. Sweat gathered at his brow, chills were setting in.

“Good thing I don’t keep alcohol in there anymore,” Joey dared to say. “Moved it all days ago!”

Bendy threw the pictures back in the drawer and turned his dark eyes onto Joey. “Where do ya keep it then? Sure seemed like Henry wanted to know.”

He couldn't be so lucky. “I can't tell you that,” Joey did his best to muster an affronted façade, but with his body feeling numb and tingling, he wasn’t at the height of his acting game. Apparently, he didn’t have to be.

Bendy stepped away from the drawer. “C’mon Joey,” the demon purred, “ya don’t want to make this an interrogation, do ya? Henry was awful upset when I was doin’ that before, but I bet he’d forgive me if I give him results.”

Joey had a hand in writing many of the Bendy episodes. He’d lived and breathed cartoons his entire life. He knew how to play along. Joey gripped the arm rests of his wheelchair, “I’d never – never break and reveal something like that!” A burp interrupted the line; Joey bit his lip and swallowed down the need to vomit.

Bendy picked up a piece of glass. “You sound determined Joey ol pal – I’ll hafta torture it outta you!”

Bendy almost killed Wally – that’s what Henry had said. Joey wholeheartedly believed it. The demon looked like he’d enjoy nothing more than gutting Joey sternum to groin. Joey didn’t have to feign terror when he replied, “torture? No, I can’t face tor-“ he leaned over the side of his wheelchair just in time for round two of throwing up.

“That really kills a scene,” Bendy whined.

Jesus. Joey wiped his lips, trembling. Things were clearer now. The nausea low and quiet in his empty stomach. The stench, though. That was something awful. 

“Hey, we’re kinda in the middle of somethin’ here,” Bendy chimed in, hopping on the desk and waving the glass in front of Joey’s face.

“It’s in that closet,” groaned Joey, pointing. So what if Henry destroyed all the booze here. It wasn’t that much. Better that then he find out what Joey hid in his desk drawer. Better he find out than Bendy bury glass in his skin. 

“What?” Bendy frowned. “It was that easy? But I wanted to torture ya. We did it all wrong again.”

"You scared me into telling," Joey gritted out, angry about his headache, angry about how close he'd been to having everything ruined, and angry about the fact he was actually telling the truth with that line. 

“Fine.” Bendy threw the glass to the side. "You just gotta make it boring-"  The door to the office burst open.

The noise had Joey clutching his temples. “Christ Henry, can you be any louder?”

“Hi, Henry!”

“Joey-“ the animator took in Joey’s abysmal appearance, and the awful smell of vomit, and his nose scrunched up. “Did you-“

“Henry, I figured out where Joey keeps it all! Tada!” Bendy presented the closet door happily, “Right behind here!”

“What?”

“Lookie-“ And then Joey had the answer to how Bendy got into his drawers in the first place. Bendy’s tail lengthened; the end reshaped itself into a simple cartoon-like key. Before anybody could tell him that obviously wasn’t going to work, his newly fashioned key slotted into the keyhole, turned, and the lock clicked. “ _Viola_!”

When he flicked his tail out, it reformed into the usual spade tip. The door opened, revealing the bottles that Joey had stacked upon the shelves, buried amongst piles of scripts and storyboards and abandoned ideas – of which Joey had many.

There was silence.

“What?” Bendy looked between the two of them. “Henry, didn’t ya wanna know where he kept it all?”

“Yes. Uh, yes, yeah.” Henry recovered first, shaking his head as if to clear away his confusion. "Um, thanks, Bendy."

Bendy preened, and Henry turned his attention to Joey. “I’m getting you water. Just water. Then I'm getting rid of all this. Joey-“ Henry hesitated. Then, exasperated, "Clean this place up. And keep looking through those books. You need to find _something_."

Joey prickled at his assertive tone. The last thing he needed after all that stress was Henry thinking he could order Joey around. It was Joey's company, Joey's ideas - well, for the most part. Once this whole disaster was over, he’d have to show Henry his place again.


	8. Henry

The rest of Henry’s morning was spent attempting to sync the piano with the music of the episodes as they were played on the projector. Unsurprisingly, this was nearly impossible given the fact that Henry didn’t know how to play the piano to begin with, and that his throbbing wrist limited his movements. But this was what the cartoon demon wanted him to do, and however Henry felt about it, telling Bendy _no_ without good cause was a bad idea.

Bendy himself, meanwhile, took over the drum, but Henry wasn’t convinced he was trying to match it up with the music at all. Or if he was, he was very, very bad at it.

The cacophony of noise was only driving Henry to further aggravation. He’d been at work for over twenty-four hours. Nearly half of that time had been spent looking after Bendy, who was energetic, talkative, and uncontrollably determined to hurt everyone he saw.

It would have been reassuring to know that despite all this, Joey was working hard to find a way to banish the demon. But Joey wasn’t going to be good for any kind of work until he sobered up and – mostly likely – slept. While Henry was stuck trying to keep Bendy entertained. The demon had refrained thus far from trying to kill him, but how long was that supposed to last?

The projector clicked off for seemingly the billionth time, and Henry slumped, letting his aching fingers go still over the piano.

Normally at this stage, he’d get a few minutes break while Bendy ran back up to the projector room and started it all over again.

This time the drumsticks clattered to the floor, and Bendy trotted over to the piano.

“You’re not very good at this, Henry.”

“I told you,” Henry replied, exasperated. “I’m an animator, not a musician.”

“I’m bored.”

Henry supposed it was remarkable enough that the horrible music playing had entertained him as long as it did. “Let’s find something else to do, then.”

Bendy made a thoughtful humming noise. “Hey, yanno what? There’s something that’s been eatin’ at me. Something about people.” Bendy clambered up onto the piano bench and sat next to Henry. His little legs swung playfully over the edge.

“Okay.” Henry never felt safe when Bendy was this close. He never felt safe around him anyway, but the closer the proximity, the worse the feeling was, and now they were only an inch apart. “I can answer questions about people.” With dread, Henry anticipated something awful about bruises, or broken bones, or the likes.

It turned out to be none of the above. “You don’t gotta answer anything: just sit still.” That was all the warning Henry got before Bendy’s gloved hands grabbed at the waistband of his pants and started tugging.

The shock of it seared right through Henry’s exhaustion. “Bendy!” Henry flailed, scrambling to push his hands away, “ _What are you doing_ -“

“C’mon, all I asked was ya hold still-“

“ _No_!”

“This pesky belt is in the way, Henry-o, lemme just-“ Bendy fumbled at the belt buckle.

“Stop it!” Then Henry scooted too far, and the piano bench wasn’t under him anymore. He thumped to the floor with a startled yelp.

Bendy peered down at him. “Where ya goin’, Henry?”

Did Bendy even understand? No… there was innocent confusion in his expression - as innocent as Bendy ever got, at least. He was just as clueless about _those_ matters as he was about the normal functioning of the human body.

“That’s private,” Henry gasped, trying to wrap his mind around the reality where he had to explain this.

“Private? Then why do people ever take their clothes off?”

“F-for changing clothes, and showering, and- it’s just private, Bendy.”

“I just want to look.”

“No – _no_.” Henry got to his feet and tucked the end of his belt back in. Henry had no idea how Bendy had gotten this particular subject in his head, but they needed to get off it, ASAP. “Let’s go to my desk,” Henry suggested frantically. “You can draw cartoons yourself, okay? Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Don’t baby me. Anyway,” Bendy crossed his arms. “We can’t leave the Music Department until I meet some musicians.”

“I told you that nobody’s coming in to work. They’re on a long break, remember?”

“Sure, Henry. Well, _you_ can go back to your desk, but _I’m_ gonna stay here.”

It was a testament to Henry’s irritation that he considered it, even if just for a moment. Aside from Henry and Joey, the studio _was_ empty: how much damage could Bendy really do? But Henry shoved away the thought. He didn’t want that question answered.

“I’ll stay with you,” Henry answered glumly.

“Great.” Bendy hopped off the piano bench. “So how do ya work this buckle?”

Henry opened his mouth to give a heated retort when a distant, grinding screech from overhead interrupted him. Then began a low, unmistakable thumping from within the bowels of the studio.

The Ink Machine.

Bendy tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. “That makes it easier to see.” He tapped his fingers along with the thumping: a rhythm he managed to get spot on.

With the noise quietly thudding in his ears, and Bendy’s hand tapping, for a single disorienting moment Henry hallucinated that his own heart was beating in time. He shook the thought away. He was just rattled, that’s all. In reality, his heart was beating a much faster, stressed rhythm.

As for the Ink Machine – undoubtedly Joey had started it up, but why? Was it the key to destroying Bendy, just as it had played a role in creating him? Henry had severely doubted that Joey, in his state, would figure out how to get rid of Bendy, but Joey had surprised him before.

The thought lightened his shoulders immediately. Hopefully, this whole ridiculous nightmare would be over soon, before Bendy could do anything else decidedly horrible or threatening.

“Say, Henry, who starts the machine every morning?” chirruped Bendy.

So Bendy was still unwaveringly convinced people would be arriving for work, then. He must think that it was a studio worker, not Joey, who had started the machine.

“I don’t know.” It didn’t matter, not really. After this, Henry was going to make sure the machine was never powered up again.

“I’ll have to meet them later,” Bendy said decisively. He paused for several seconds. Then, grinning, “but _first_ -“

At that moment, the recording studio’s door slammed open.

In walked two people: Sammy, dressed neck to toe in black, and a violinist standing a head shorter, both looking irritable and arguing about the last piece of music.

Henry froze, because _nobody should be here_. He’d put the sign up, he’d locked the door: nobody, _nobody_ should have been able to get into the studio. It couldn't be possible. It wasn’t possible. Only he and Joey even had keys to the front door.

But possible or not, the evidence was right in front of him. He failed to react in time before Bendy breezed past him, tail happily waving.

“Looks like ya have a violin there – quick, play me a little tune!”

In another situation, Sammy and violinist’s quick snap from irritation to horror might have been humorous. Now Henry watched with terror himself. Undoubtedly they too had caught on to the unnatural, evil presence that belied his innocent appearance.

“Hey,” Bendy said when the violinist gaped stupidly at him. “I said play me a tune. Unless ya can’t?”

“Wh-what is…?” the violinist’s eyes flicked desperately between Sammy and Henry, a silent plea for help or answers – or both.

“Are ya dumb?” Bendy grabbed at his shirt and suspenders, “I’m just askin’ for a simple jingle-“ The violinist let out a petrified squeal; the violin itself crashed to the floor with an unhappy twang as its musician struggled to dislodge Bendy’s grip.

This quickly turned into a battle where the violinist was terrified out of his mind, and Bendy, giggling, made a game out of tugging. Henry lurched out of his paralysis and swooped to the rescue.

“Bendy, let go!”

To Henry’s great relief, Bendy released the poor man, and the violinist skittered backward.

Henry hated touching Bendy, but the demon looked very much like he was going to chase after the violinist just for the fun of it.

“Bendy,” Henry snapped, and snatched his hand. Bendy looked up at him.

“I don’t think he’s a very good musician,” he told Henry matter-of-factly.

“What is that thing?” the violinist shrieked, at the very same time that Sammy said quietly,

“But _I_ am.” The remark was so absurd, so beside the point, that everyone present paused. Sammy continued, “I can play.”

It was the first thing he had said since seeing Bendy. Belatedly, Henry realized that throughout all this, Sammy hadn’t moved. Hadn’t backed away, hadn’t yelled. There was fear in his eyes, and tension in the lines of his body, but there was something _else_ too.

A slow smile spread across Bendy’s face. “What can ya play?”

“Wait-“ Henry started.

“Almost any instrument.” Then, after a beat, Sammy revised, “My greatest talents lay with the piano and banjo.”

This was not at all how Sammy should be reacting. Henry felt dumb shock and disbelief at the idea that a person could encounter a creature like Bendy and their first response would be a – a conceited  _resume_.

“I like both those instruments,” Bendy’s hand quite literally dripped out of Henry’s, and then he took a step closer. Sammy flinched back like a spooked deer.

“I can play for you,” he replied, and then, very carefully, “but what exactly _are_ you?”

Henry realized what the _something else_ was: awe. Sammy was in awe.

“Ain’t it obvious?” Bendy took another step closer; Sammy took another back.

“It’s Bendy, just Bendy-“ Henry said swiftly; it was far past the point of pretending like none of this had happened. “Joey created him. For um, for the studio.”

Without looking away, Sammy derided, “His little character? Don’t tell me you’re that naïve, Henry…” Then, to Bendy,  “You’re something else, aren’t you? Something much darker. So why do you conceal yourself in that body?”

“What,” Bendy said flatly.

“I don’t think that’s a-“ Henry started.

“This – this form,” Sammy gestured, “a _cartoon_ , of all things. You’re so much greater, so much more powerful, I can feel it- so why are you masquerading as this?“

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Bendy, dangerously quiet, answered, “I’m tired of people telling me I’m something I’m not.”

Henry tried to interject, but only a half formed burp of a word rose to his lips before Bendy closed the distance, snared Sammy’s wrist, and twisted.

Henry and Sammy both cried out, one in horror and one in agony.

“I’m Bendy,” Bendy said matter-of-factly, twisting harder. “I’m not anything else.”

“Okay, okay,” Sammy yelped, hunching double, “Let go, let go, please-“

Swearing, Henry moved to force Bendy off, but his fingers came away dripping with ink and Bendy was immobile no matter how hard he tried. “Stop it, let him go!”

“I’m Bendy,” he repeated, ignoring Henry, and cranking Sammy's wrist until, whimpering, Sammy folded his long legs beneath himself.

"I'm sorry, please, Bendy, I need my hands for playing," Now kneeling and gasping, Sammy added, "I'm sorry, I was wrong, I'm sorry."  

Henry didn’t think he’d ever see the day that Sammy Lawrence admitted he was wrong. But just like that, Bendy released his grip; this time, Henry was able to yank him away. “Jesus Christ, Bendy, you can’t just-“ There was no point in explaining it to him. “Sammy, are you okay?”

Sammy kneaded his wrist. “I’m fine.”

“You look better on your knees,” Bendy decided. “Sammy, right?”

"Yes, Bendy."

Henry looked up to realize the violinist had bolted from the room. Henry didn’t blame him, but it still left another tight knot of worry in his chest. That was two people now who knew about Bendy and had fled. There was too much going on. Too much unraveling at once. He didn’t know what to do. He needed to think. His brain was working like molasses through the panic and exhaustion. Everything felt dream-like, surreal. Dizzy, even. He hadn’t eaten in a while, had he?

Henry rubbed his temple with his good hand. At least Bendy didn’t seem dead set on hurting Sammy anymore. “How did you even get in the studio?” Henry finally settled on.

“I walked through the door,” Sammy responded drily, earning a giggle from Bendy.

Henry regretted his immediate response to help Sammy, just a little. “The door was locked…”

“Oh, that was me,” Bendy said it as casual as could be. “The locked door and sign woulda really discouraged people from comin’ in today, huh? So I just went ahead and fixed that.”

What. When would he even have had the time?

Oh god, that meant everybody would be arriving for work – or already had arrived. They had no idea.

The news brought Henry only more exhaustion. Tiredly, he uttered, “we need to go somewhere private.” Where people wouldn't see Bendy, is what he meant.

“ _Private_!” Bendy declared.

“My office?” Sammy suggested.

Henry didn’t think they had any choice. Any minute more people would be flooding into the music hall. Hell, there was an entire orchestra and the projectionists and – no, they couldn't let this spiral even more out of control.

“All right,” he sighed. “Let’s go.”


	9. Sammy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simple note that Joey never explicitly says that he created Bendy's design rather than Henry, but he sure doesn't correct people when they get it wrong. This is why Sammy, and most of the studio workers, believe Bendy was Joey's design.

Sammy had never believed in the supernatural, or in the heavenly forces that sent grown men wailing to the heavens like children. Superstition, paranoia, all of it Sammy witnessed with a derisive cynicism, as he believed only in things he could see and touch.

But Bendy – or whatever monster it was wearing Bendy as a costume - was both. That is to say, he was indisputably supernatural. Just being in his presence alone was such a feeling: like being suffocated without being touched. It felt _good_. And Bendy was also real. Something Sammy could see, something he could touch, something that had touched _him_.

As they progressed to his office, Sammy rubbed his sore wrist reverentially. At the time that Bendy had twisted it, he’d been terrified: firstly, of pain that he was not inflicting on himself; secondly, of the potential to damage a limb so crucial to his creative pursuits. Now that the imminent danger had passed, Sammy felt peculiarly… gifted. Twinges like reminders throbbed up his wrist and forearm. 

Sammy daringly wondered if Bendy might want to hurt him out of something other than punishment. Yes, it had been punishment, he knew. Whatever creature masqueraded as Bendy did not like being called by anything else except for the mask he wore. Sammy didn’t understand, and it aggravated him to demean something so magnificent into a character that _Joey_ had created. But he also did not want to upset him. He would call the ink demon by whatever name he wanted to be called. And perhaps the demon might want to add to Sammy’s myriad of scars, just for the pleasure of it.

It was an unusual thought. The pain Sammy gave to himself was something artistic, cherished, profound. No human could possibly understand. But Bendy wasn’t exactly human. He was far from it. Perhaps he could understand.

Sammy snuck a glance at the demon, who was trotting by Henry’s side and whistling cheerily. Ah, a little tune Sammy had composed for the episodes. He hadn’t liked the tune much originally: it was hastily done, messy. But it sounded better, whistled by Bendy. It even made Sammy feel a tight quivering in his chest, like the taunt surface of a drum that has just been struck.

They rounded the corner; Sammy fumbled with his keys.

“Office of Sammy Lawrence: Music Department Director,” Bendy read off the sign. “Ooh, Henry, we haven’t been in this room yet.”

“This isn’t really private,” Henry whispered to Sammy, undoubtedly making note of the huge window that let one see almost every corner of the office.

Sammy cast him an annoyed look. “Yes, Joey has a cruel sense of humor. But I made some adjustments.”

The lock clicked and they entered the office, Bendy first, since he zoomed right past.

Sammy locked the door behind, and then grabbed huge sheets of black fabric that were rolled up by the door. These he hung over the windows, which immediately doused the room in a dim half-light.

To Henry’s bewildered look, he replied, “I don’t like people watching me. It’s distracting.”

“No, no, it works for this,” Henry quickly rectified.

 _This_. Bendy had beelined to Sammy’s desk and started rifling through the papers there. “What exactly is this?” Sammy asked.

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Henry rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It was all Joey; I have no idea how he created him… god, Sammy, I don’t know what to do at all.”

“Joey?” Sammy didn’t understand how a man like Joey Drew could possibly have had any role in summoning something like this demon.

“We need to tell people to leave – or, or _something_ ,” Henry uttered desperately. He said it low enough that perhaps he was hoping Bendy wouldn't hear, but the demon raised his head from the music sheet he’d been inspecting.

“That ain't gonna happen,” Bendy interjected matter-of-factly. “I told ya I was gonna meet everybody, Henry, and sooner or later, I will. Main characters, supporting characters, background characters – everybody.”

Henry gazed at him helplessly.

“I don’t think you can do anything Bendy doesn’t want,” Sammy pointed out.

“Shut up, Sammy,” Bendy chimed. Then he held up the music sheet. “Did ya write this?”

“Yes. I write all the music for the show.”

“ _All_ the music?” Bendy whistled. “Henry, why didn’t ya mention Sammy before? Sounds like he’s the kinda guy I was lookin' for.” Then Bendy continued exploring the desk, opening and closing drawers. “Ya keep anything in here? Any pictures? Drinks?”

“What…?” As always, Sammy hated the prickly sensation of people invading his space and possessions, but for the first time, he didn’t try to stop the invasion.

“Sammy,” Henry hissed, quieter. “We need to do something. He wants to kill people. You don’t understand; he’s been –“

“He’s terrifying,” Sammy acknowledged, a little squirm in his heart. He wondered who Bendy had tried to kill.

“Yeah.” Henry looked at him oddly.

Ah. Sammy forced himself to assume a mien of deep concern. “You’re right,” he said importantly. “We need to do something.”

“ _But I don’t know what to do_.” Apparently, it just took the first person to sit and listen for Henry to completely fall apart. To Sammy’s shock, Henry’s expression crumpled. He was not quite crying, but he was as close to it as Sammy had ever seen him come. He looked like an absolute wreck, with tousled hair, baggy red eyes, and an ink stained and wrinkled shirt. “I’ve been here all night, hoping that Joey would – but he hasn't been any help. I’ve been scared out of my mind that Bendy'll kill me - and now everyone’s coming into the studio – I – I had locked the door, and put a sign up, but- I swear, he can move things without being close to them, Sammy, he’s got abilities I don’t even begin to understand. Now _nobody’s_ safe- I shouldn't even have dragged you in but-“

Move things without being close to them. Sammy wondered what else Bendy could do. “You look horrible,” Sammy said.

“I know,” Henry replied brokenly.

Sammy glanced at Bendy again, and an idea unfurled. “Well, you can’t evacuate everyone,” he told Henry. “That isn’t a long term solution, keeping people out of work for – how long? Days? Weeks? Not to mention… I doubt he’d _let_ you.”

Henry’s frightened look gave Sammy a thrill. He ached to know exactly what Henry had seen and experienced over the night. But no time for that now.

“What you _can_ do,” Sammy continued, “is get food and sleep. Look at yourself, Henry: you can barely stand on two feet.”

Henry rushed to say, “I can’t leave him alone; he – he listens to me, mostly.”

“I’ll look after him.”

There was a beat of silence, interrupted only by a loud crunch. Bendy had decided to bite through a pen.

“No,” Henry replied. He pulled back his sleeve and revealed a thick purplish bruise that suspiciously resembled a handprint. Sammy stared. “He did this to me, and he even seems to like me the most. I can’t let anyone else get hurt.”

“I’ll play him a song.” Sammy gestured to the banjo leaning against his desk.

“He’s tireless, Sammy –“

“Then I’ll keep playing.” Sammy was running out of patience. There was something otherworldly and very dangerous in his office, and he was stuck talking to Henry.

“I can’t lea-“ Henry’s words twisted into a yawn.

“Henry.” Sammy moved to put his hand on Henry’s shoulder; but awkwardly aborted the action halfway through. “If you keep going like this, you’ll pass out, and then what good will you be? It’s better to take a break now and get your energy up. It doesn’t sound like you have any better solution right now.”

Hairs rose on Sammy’s arms. In the next moment, Bendy materialized at his side, peering curiously between Henry and Sammy while picking metal shards from his mouth. “Are ya talking about shooing my creator away?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Bendy laughed. “What, ya worried I’m gonna hurt someone, Henry?”

Henry, apparently, realized the futility of lying, as he merely gazed at Bendy fearfully without answering.

“I’ll be fine,” Sammy insisted. There was a moment where his eyes met with Bendy’s. Those black void-like eyes were unreadable, but something passed between the two of them that made Sammy shiver.

Then Bendy turned to Henry. “Promise I won’t kill anyone, s’long as Sammy plays me a song.”

“Do you keep your promises?” Henry asked slowly.

“Don’t think I’ve been alive long enough to know that, Henry-boy. But I know I don’t like lying. Lying is wrong.”

Sammy had to restrain a laugh at Henry’s dumbstruck expression. Bendy was honest, if nothing else. And blunt, too.

“Go on, Henry. When you come back, we’ll be right here.”

Henry hesitated. “If – if I do-“

“We won’t leave this room,” anticipated Sammy.

“… But why do you want to…” Henry waved vaguely.

“Because you look so pathetic right now even I can’t handle it. Go, Henry. Food. Sleep.” Sammy nudged the sleep-deprived animator to the door.

“If anything happens-“ Henry started, and Sammy pushed him out.

“ _Go_.”

The door snapped shut, the lock clicked. Sammy waited a beat, to see if Henry would knock to come back in. But no, nothing.

Finally, they were alone.

Sammy’s heart thudded. He slowly turned his back to the door, and faced the creature that was so small in stature but so chilling.

“You’re pretty determined to hang out with me,” Bendy noted.

“Yes.” Now that they were alone, the dark aura hovering about Bendy burned even deeper into Sammy’s bones. Bendy was not safe to be around. It was electric.

“Pretty weird,” Bendy remarked. “Kinda seems like most people do the whole ‘scream and run’ dance. But you, well, ya wanna be with me.” He meandered closer, tilted his head to the side. “Why’s that, Sammy Lawrence, Music Director?”

There was something very intense about having Bendy’s attention wholly fixed upon him, with nobody else to intervene. Sammy kneaded his hands nervously, and unconsciously took a step back. “You frighten me.”

“And ya _don’t_ think you should run?”

“No, I don’t know…” Sammy kneaded his hands harder. “It’s simply… I’ve never met something like you.” Ah, he was putting it in such inelegant words. Now, of all times, to not know what to say… He wanted to talk of his life, to provide a history and context for his peculiarities. But what care would Bendy have of those matters? No, better to avoid that tedious soliloquy. “You must realize how different you are,” Sammy’s breath hitched. “Not at all like the people that come in and out of this studio. Not like people at all. You… you are the sort of being that I never before believed existed.” A faint laugh left his lips, at the sheer surreality of the situation.

So long he had seen people praise higher beings, invisible beings that, if they existed, played no role whatsoever in this world. How could he begin to convey the impossible awe of _meeting_ such a being? One here in the flesh – or in the ink, as it was. One with an active interest in the world. One that may even have interest in him. “You’re a demon,” Sammy murmured. “You frighten me. But I want to be frightened.” It occurred to Sammy that Bendy was not breathing. That he didn’t need to breathe.

“You talk a lot,” Bendy said.

“I’m sorry-“

“Play me a song.”

“Yes, of course." Sammy dove for his banjo. He clumsily settled into the desk chair and arranged the banjo on his lap, nervousness in place of his usual confidence. “What do you want me to play?”

“Somethin’ like this-“ Bendy whistled a brief jingle. It was a fractured but unmistakeable rendition of the jaunty piece that showed up in  _Noah's Bark_ (a reimagining of Noah's Ark that centered on Boris).

As soon as Bendy finished, Sammy’s fingers leapt to the strings. In his haste, he started too rushed, but within a few measures he paced himself to the proper rhythm.

“Yes, that!” Bendy snapped his fingers. “Now _that’s_ someone who knows how to play!” Swiftly Bendy joined in, whistling and tapping his hand against the desk.

When the song concluded, and the last notes fizzled into silence, Sammy clutched the banjo close to his chest, nearly panting. It wasn’t that the piece was difficult to play. It was that Sammy had never felt such pressure to play so perfectly before. He’d rushed some bits in the middle, and his nervous fingers had nearly missed a note here or there – mistakes he never would have made before.

“I’m sorry,” Sammy uttered. “It wasn’t my best-“

“You proved it,” Bendy crowed.

“What?”

“You really _are_ behind the music of Bendy, Sammy Lawrence.” Bendy grabbed just above Sammy’s knee and squeezed hard enough to ache. The cold of the ink seeped through the fabric of his pants. “I like ya. You’re very important to the cartoons. Ya set the tone and emotion.”

Sammy didn’t know how to reply. But he’d pleased Bendy, and that was good. Bendy’s grip on his leg tightened. Sammy didn’t know what he was trying to achieve, but it was beginning to hurt.

“You’re worth keepin’, like Henry,” Bendy decided. “A main character sort of guy.”

“Thank you.”

“If I decided ta make my own episodes, you’d play all the music for ‘em. More of that upbeat kinda stuff, Sammy, I like that; real bouncy sorta tunes. With those sudden surprises where the cymbals crash!" Bendy gestured sharply with one hand; his other clenched (perhaps unintentionally) on Sammy’s leg.

“Hrk-“ Sammy bent over the banjo, wincing.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Hurts.”

Bendy slowly released his grip. “I like hurting people.”

The moment Bendy’s hand was off his leg, Sammy rubbed the sore spot. He could see how Henry had gotten that bruise. There was a great amount of hidden strength in Bendy's small form. If he chose to hurt him further, Sammy wasn’t sure he’d have any power to stop the demon. That simultaneously terrified and excited him.

“I want to kill people,” Bendy added contemplatively, as if this were a logical conversation to segue into immediately after the discussion on music.

It occurred to Sammy that a banjo was a very frail sort of thing to defend himself with if Bendy decided he was better off dead.

“I’ve never done it before,” Bendy admitted, “I’ve been alive a whole night, and I didn’t kill one person.”

“Please don’t kill me,” Sammy whispered.

“I got a question for ya, Sammy. See, here’s my trouble – I don’t know how ta kill humans!”

“Um…”

“Kinda embarrassing, ain't it? I've been thinkin' about it all night. Wantin' to do it. I could mow ya over with a car. I saw that in the 'toons but-” This subject seemed to be causing Bendy great consternation. He scratched at his horns, and his fingers came away dripping ink. “There ain’t any cars here, and it just don't feel right. I want somethin’ more _personal_. Somethin' with my own hands." Bendy scrutinized his own open palms thoughtfully. "Reach inside ya and take handfuls out. Peel ya apart and let your skin drip between my fingers." 

Sammy was wordless.

"Oh!" Bendy jumped; Sammy flinched. "Wally had a wrench! Now that's a fun idea. Should'a stuck with that, and saved the music for later. Can ya imagine? Just hittin’ someone over and over and over and over again. Right in the skull. Boy, I wanna know what happens when ya do that. If I see Wally again, I won't get distracted again. I gotta find out, 'cause human bodies do some wacky things. It's nothin' like in the episodes, let me tell ya! I squeezed Henry’s wrist, just a little, and it turned purple. Purple! And all swollen. Made me really wonder what else ya can get bodies to do. Hey Sammy, what’s it look like if you whack a human with a wrench? Really whale on 'em?” Bendy peered up at Sammy, his black eyes glinting with curiosity.

Sammy trembled. Bendy was demented. Sadistic. What a horribly dark mind. It was intoxicating. He spoke of all these things not with hatred or anger, but… passion. Excitement. Love, even.

“Sammy? Ello-hay?” he sounded annoyed, now.

“Yes – Yes, Bendy.” Sammy scrambled to organize his thoughts. “I’ve never seen that myself, but… I imagine it would be grisly. Bloody. Purple and red.”

“ _Red_?”

“For blood.”

Bendy stared. “Blood is red?”

Sammy nodded. His heartbeat was thundering. Despite his naïveté, Bendy had painted such horrific images. 

“Ya mean,” Bendy said, “when I feel someone’s pulse, it's… it's this red stuff pumping inside ‘em? Blood’s not black?”

“That’s right.”

Bendy’s gaze drifted to Sammy’s wrist. “Wow.”

“I could…” Sammy hesitated. This was a bad idea. He shouldn't. Then, breathlessly, “I could show you.” He knew he was inviting something very dangerous. He almost regretted it as soon as he said it, but the words were out there, and there wasn't any taking them back.

The demon was staring intently at him. “I wanna see."

“Okay.” Sammy swallowed. “Yes.” He was struck by momentary confusion, unsure how to proceed. Or perhaps paralyzed with the dread he was really about to do this. Then he delicately leaned his banjo up against the desk. “I need –“ he patted around his disarrayed desk. The little silver knife he normally used for this task was at his apartment, locked away in the medicine cabinet. He didn’t have anything for this purpose here.

Then glinting gold caught the corner of his eye. The shredded tiny pieces of the metal nib that Bendy had broken. Sammy picked up one fragment, and wiped the little shard clean of ink. Yes, it had a jagged sharp edge where Bendy had cracked it. It would do.

Sammy moved to sit down, only for Bendy’s cold fingers to wrap around his wrist. “Nuh-uh, Sammy. Kneel. You're too tall.”

Sammy’s heart raced. On some level, he couldn't believe any of this was happening. “Yes, Bendy,” slipped past his lips before he could think about it, and then his knees hit the hardwood floor. He sat back on his heels. This position put Bendy almost at the same height as Sammy.

Right. Now for cutting. Sammy touched his left forearm through the black fabric. He’d have to lift his sleeve, which meant showing his scars to Bendy. If anyone could possibly understand the artistry of it, then Sammy had no doubt it would be the demon. But the memory of the last time he’d revealed them was burned into his mind.

“Is petting your arm how you bleed?” Bendy asked, and Sammy huffed a laugh.

“No. I…” Sammy squeezed his arm. “I already have scars is all.”

“What for?”

Sammy hesitated, and it occurred to him how strange it was, to hesitate about talking and yet be so eager to hurt himself. “I made them myself. They’re music notes, Bendy. To my masterpiece.”

“So?”

“I didn’t want you to be surprised, or…” to not understand.

"Lemme see."

Sammy tugged his sleeve up. 

Just below his wrist were several pale thin parallel lines. These were the most faded, as he had not opened them in over a decade, and until now he had regretted making them, since they took up canvas space. Then there were the marks higher on his inner forearm, and all the way up to his wrist on the outer part of his arm. These were delicately crafted lines and symbols that represented different music features: a code that Sammy had crafted himself, and that only he knew the key to. Hidden beneath his shirt, they marched up his arms and shoulders, along the top of his back where he could reach, and just below his collarbones. It was still incomplete.

Ghostly cold fingers touched the raised lines on his arm. Silently, Bendy traced the notes and symbols; Sammy shivered. He felt appreciated, admired. He wanted to talk at length about his work, now, but that wasn't what Bendy was here for. His silent appraisal was enough. 

“Do you want to see blood?” Sammy murmured. Now that his sleeve was pulled up, and his thumb was teasing the sharp edge of the broken nib, a certain itch had nestled into his chest. It had been a few days since he’d last carved into himself. He’d missed it.

“Yes,” Bendy replied, darkly eager.

It was like routine, except so gloriously different this time, with a demon watching him. A demon that fostered a similar fascination. Sammy grasped the tiny metal shard carefully and placed it to his skin. On the first try, the nib wasn’t held tight enough, and it tucked itself between his fingers without doing any harm. Sammy readjusted his grip, and dug the broken edge into his skin. This time it didn’t slip away.

He hissed softly as he dragged it across his wrist, and a thin line followed its path. Red beads bloomed from the slice. The familiar pleasure scrawled up his arm, warm and stinging and relaxing. It was strange, to not accompany it in his head with the lulling murmur of a piano, or the rising cry of a violin – but this once, it was not about music. It was about sharing the experience with Bendy.

The demon had come much closer. The scent of ink was sharp in Sammy’s nose.

“See?” Sammy uttered. “Red.” 

“Do it again,” Bendy urged. It made Sammy feel very unsafe. Exhilaratingly unsafe.

“Yes.” Again the nib pressed into his skin, and a second, deeper line joined the first. Blood welled up faster. 

 Bendy made a small, eager noise. His tail was flicking impatiently near his heels. "Does it hurt?" 

“It stings.”

"Oh, good." Bendy’s gloved hands cradled his arm, on either side of the wounds. Sammy had only a second to realize what was about to happen before Bendy lowered his head, and flat teeth clenched over bone. Then Bendy bit down, _hard_. Agony zigzagged along Sammy's muscles, set his nerves afire, and his entire hand went tingly and numb. 

"S-stop- That's too hard - _Bendy_ -"

It occurred to him, as teeth punctured through his skin, that he did not know how to get Bendy _off_. 


	10. Henry, Sammy

Henry had to admit that Sammy was right.

He was barely functioning at all at this point, much less functioning at full capacity. The lack of food and sleep and the constant stress were wearing on him, and would have ultimately made it impossible to keep looking after Bendy. As soon as he stepped out of Sammy’s office, all the exhaustion came crashing down on him. He needed a break. And sleep. And, if the low growling ache in the depth of his belly was any indication, he needed food.

Food first, he decided. Henry dodged past coworkers, and their greetings and questions. He slipped out of the studio (not a single glimpse of that sign… he wondered what Bendy had done with it).

Outside, the sun was glaring and painfully _real_ , which was a strange thought to have. The noise of the city blared at him: honking horns, hollering people, and rattling streetcars. All of it was marked in weirdly sharp relief. It was so… _unlike_ a cartoon, Henry thought. But that was a weird thought to have.

Henry glanced back at the closed studio door, frowning. It looked just like a normal door. With all the proper grooves and dings and detail that reality had.

For half a second, Henry had the impulse to open the door again immediately and look back inside the studio, just to make sure that it, like the outdoor world, looked real and not like a sketched imitation. But Henry resisted the impulse. He was losing it, that was all. Had spent too much time looking at cartoons. Looking at Bendy.

Tucking his hands in his pockets, Henry headed down the street.

On another level, it was eerie to experience the sights and sounds of the city as if nothing at all was wrong. To see life continuing as normal, unaware of the monstrous thing that was now living in the studio. Henry envied that. For a moment – just one brief moment – he imagined walking away. For good. He imagined picking up the morning paper, scanning for jobs, and never looking back again.

But the moment passed.

He couldn't abandon the studio, nor the workers within it, nor even Joey, who despite his failings, Henry considered a close friend. It was Joey, after all, that had found him when he was at his lowest, and heartily encouraged the one thing Henry had a passion for, the very thing that inspired only cynicism from Henry’s family. He could not turn his back on everybody, especially when the majority of workers at the studio had no similar choice. 

Henry wandered into a bakery with his muddled thoughts full of how to fix the situation. He couldn't begin to understand Joey’s nonsensical books about the occult, otherwise he’d try to read up an answer himself… then again, maybe he ought to give it a chance. His only experience with those books was a few weeks ago, when he’d flicked through a couple on Joey’s desk, both written in a script with letters that Henry was very certain weren’t part of the English alphabet. Maybe some were more comprehensible than the others, though…

Yawning, Henry paid a couple pennies for a pastry. He could read the books, consult with Joey, try to grasp what they were saying. If he didn’t sleep too long, he’d have time for that before returning to Sammy. 

And until they figured out a solution, they couldn't just evacuate everyone. Sammy had been right on that point, too. There was no telling how long it would be before they found a way to get rid of Bendy. At this point, Henry could care less about continuing production on the episodes, but shutting down the studio… that meant dozens of men without pay for an indeterminate amount of time. Dozens of families with no money to rely on, and little chance of getting new employment.

In his fog, Henry bit into the napkin as well as the pastry, and spluttering, spit both out.

What if shutting down the studio _was_ for the best? Henry countered his own argument, as he rearranged the napkin and nibbled the pastry. If Bendy did end up killing someone, then that was much much worse than everyone at the studio being penniless and unemployed, wasn't it?

Despite the situation, Henry let out a short laugh. Anybody would think he were crazy. Talking about Bendy, his mischievous lovable character, murdering people in the real world. What a mad juxtaposition. Henry only wished it were some joke. A bizarro episode never released to the big screen. If only.

God, he was tired. He couldn't think straight. He’d mull it over again after sleeping.

Henry finished off his pastry and tucked the napkin into his pocket. Back to the studio. He couldn't return to Linda like this. No, she’d see him and right away demand he stay home, eat some soup, get rest. Who knew when he’d be able to return to the studio after that. Bendy couldn't be trusted alone – well, with Sammy - that long.

It was only as Henry closed the studio's door behind him that he realized he’d forgotten to check how _real_ the interior of the studio looked compared to the outside. But that was a ridiculous thing to check. Anyway, now that he was indoors he was very sure there was nothing unusual or abnormally cartoonish about the studio. It was the living (not breathing)  _Bendy_ that was weird here, not the studio itself.

Henry was on his way to infirmary when a mousy-looking green-eyed individual popped in front of him.

“Henry!”

Henry blinked. “Wally?” he said in disbelief. He was sure the janitor wouldn't have come back to work – at least not so quickly.

“Yeah.” Wally offered a nervous smile. As if he reading Henry’s thoughts, he elaborated, “Got a family to look after, Henry. Can’t just take days off and risk getting fired. Say um, where’s-“ He looked left and right and in a lower voice, “where’s Bendy? You get rid of him?”

“I wish,” Henry answered tiredly.

“You haven’t?” Wally’s eyes darted. “Then-?”

“Sammy’s looking after him. We’ll… we’ll get it figured out.” Henry wished he could believe himself.

“ _Sammy_?” Wally looked shocked.

"Just until I get some rest. Stay away from his office, all right?”

Wally fiddled with the wrench at his hip. “Look Henry, if there’s anything I can do-“

Henry stared. After his whole experience, Wally wanted to _help_. “Just… for now, don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“I won’t tell a soul. Hah, who would even believe me! But hey, you, Sammy, me - does anybody else know?”

“Wally-“ Henry rubbed his temple. “Please, I need to rest. I don’t want to leave Bendy with Sammy any longer than I have to.”

“Yeah, sorry - Just uh, keep me posted, Henry, all right? I mean, with a thing like that running around…” Wally shuddered.

“I know.” Henry waved him off, and slumped to the infirmary. Only upon getting there did he see that the place was a wreck.

The coat rack was tipped over, the cabinets all opened, supplies thrown messily on the counter. Henry sighed. He’d never needed to come here himself, so hadn’t realized what a mess they would leave the place in. Oh well. He could talk to Joey later about it. A messy workspace, even if it was the infirmary, was the least of his concerns right now.

Henry flopped onto one of the beds and passed out almost immediately.

 

 

 

Bendy had his teeth firmly ground into the meat of Sammy’s arm, and he was very unwilling to let go.

Sammy’s free hand shot out to tug Bendy off him, but the demon didn’t move an inch. It was completely useless. He only bit down harder, and blood thickly bubbled up around his teeth. “ _Stop_ ,” Sammy repeated hoarsely, hissing and curling nearly double from the pain. Bendy was clearly not in the mood for listening. His tail lashed excitedly near his feet, his black eyes glittered, and a grin was widening around the bite.

He really was a demon. Something that felt only pleasure at Sammy’s pain. Something that wanted to do so many more, awful things to him. God, something that wanted to _kill_ him – Sammy could feel that like a physical presence: the murderous intent heavy enough to suffocate him. At every second it intensified, and Sammy imagined it pressing lovingly to his skin, caressing over scars and his throat and –

Fuck. _Fuck_. He was hard. He was _terrified_.

This was what he had wanted. When he offered his blood in the first place, he wanted to earn Bendy’s attention. He wanted to be hurt. He hadn’t expected _this_ necessarily, this was overwhelming – his fingers scrawled with tingling numbness, and the bite itself felt like fire as Bendy’s teeth clenched into wet meat; he was paralyzed by the horror of potentially losing his ability to play, of losing his arm, or his life – but overwhelming was…. Intoxicating. And Bendy was enjoying this. Reveling in something that for so long only Sammy had understood and loved.

Sammy watched with agony-twisted awe as his blood (so much more blood than when he ever cut himself) dripped down his arm, and the heady smell of it filled his nostrils.

A noise escaped his throat, something close to a moan. _Come on_ , he thought dizzily, _it’s not like you can stop him anyway_. And what a feeling, being entirely powerless. Entirely at the mercy of a demon that wanted nothing but his pain. With tremendous self control, he unclenched his fist, and bent his wrist back, better exposing the length of his forearm. Offering.

Bendy accepted. He released from the first bite (stringy bits of blood and skin connecting his mouth to the ruined flesh) only to strike like a snake and latch lower on Sammy’s forearm.

Sammy muffled a cry. This was so, so much worse than anything he’d ever done to himself. And unlike all those times he’d locked himself away with a blade, he had no control now. No power over when this stopped. Sammy’s teeth dug into his lower lip. He was really hard. He wished he wasn’t, because it was interrupting the purity, the intensity, the sheer rapturous pleasure of his experience - the experience of a prey clutched by a predator. He hated that his body sometimes turned pain in something sexual, riddled with embarrassment and base physical desires.

But then Bendy released from the second bite, and dragged a thin black bifurcated tongue along the wounds, and it was very very hard to ignore the thick need tight against the confines of his pants.

 _You could die_ he reminded himself, somewhere deep down that was screaming at him to stop Bendy and get the hell out of this room. His response was ripped between terror and further excitement. His free hand thumped to the floor between his legs, partly to hide himself, partly to give him something to press up against.

But with a final few appreciative laps into the wounds, Bendy stepped back. “Wow,” he said, loud and jarring. A giddy chuckle bubbled up. “I really like blood.”

Sammy tried to form words and utterly failed. He was panting. His forearm looked like a ruined mess, his skin raised and bunched in the shape of Bendy's teeth, and then dipped down into deep black wells full of blood that dribbled and plinked to the floor. Mutely, Sammy flexed his arm and fingers a few times to make sure they still functioned. Bendy watched with fascination.

“The whole deal is so much more vivid than in the ‘toons,” he murmured distractedly, licking blood off his own white gloved hands.

“I… I need a doctor,” Sammy said dizzily, and his words sounded distant and fuzzy to his own ears. Oh god, was he going into shock? 

“Ooh!” Bendy squealed and did a little jig in place. “I can be your doctor! It’ll be like that episode _Bendy and Boris, MD’s_. We gotta get some needles, right? All doctors have got needles.”

“No, I need – something to disinfect this-“ the intensity of the immediate pain was paving way to the reality that if he didn’t do something, he was probably going to bleed out.

“I need a doctor’s coat,” Bendy said importantly. “And needles.”

The infirmary. It was just around the corner from his office. Henry was supposed to be sleeping there, but that was the point – he should be _sleeping_. If Sammy just darted in, grabbed some supplies, and returned right to his office…

“Bendy,” he uttered, voice shaking, “will you stay here, I-“ he struggled to his feet, and felt woozy the moment he stood. He snatched his coat from the back of his chair and wrapped it clumsily around his arm to temporarily stifle the bleeding.

“Where ya goin’?” Bendy asked.

“The infirmary. I will only be a moment." 

“Oh no ya ain’t.” Bendy yanked on his wrist so hard that Sammy staggered, and feared something in his shoulder came dangerously close to popping. He ended comically hunched over, nearly face to face with the demon. Bendy smiled. "Lookie here, Sammy - every patient has _gotta_ have a doctor. And lucky for you, I'm the most qualified guy around! It's all in the title, right?  _MD_. That stands for-" This brought his words to a halt, just for a second, until he shook his head. "Whatever. Point is, you're not goin' anywhere without me to patch ya up."

"Yes, Bendy," Sammy replied instinctively. It was either go to the infirmary with Bendy, or don't go at all. There was no choice. "We need to pick up some supplies, but we must be quiet. And quick. And come right back."

Bendy giggled conspiratorially. “Ooh, goin’ behind the creator’s back. Like  _Spy Sniffers_ , sneakin' around the police."

"Exactly like that." Sammy made sure the coat was wrapped snugly around his arm. It was bulky and bleeding all over the thing would probably ruin it, but it felt like his thudding heart just kept pumping out more blood and he was getting light-headed. Better to be alive and coat-less. At the very least his physical need had finally flagged. Sammy unlocked his door and stuck his head out, making sure the coast was clear before he rushed out, Bendy trotting eagerly at his heels.

The trip over was thankfully brief, and Sammy checked the infirmary before entering, praying Henry was asleep. But there was nobody there. Nobody in any of the beds, nobody standing around. Huh. That made things easier, then. Sammy started opening and closing cabinets in hunt for supplies, while Bendy tugged at a lab coat hung on a rack.

The entire rack came crashing down and Sammy flinched. 

“Whoops,” Bendy whispered. “ _Sshhhh_.”

Okay, bandages, bandages… Yes! Sammy snatched a roll of gauze. Bendy meanwhile scrambled clumsily up the shelves and onto the counter. He was now wearing a lab coat, which draped behind him and trailed down the counter like a cape. The sleeves were absurdly long and dangled pointlessly.

“I’m a trained professional,” Bendy whispered. “I’ve got ya covered, Sammy.”

“Can you search for iodine?” Sammy asked. “It’s orange, should come in-"

"Nope. I gotta find stabby stuff. Needles. Real important. You get the iodine." Bendy joined in Sammy's hunt, which mostly involved empty sleeves flailing about and getting in Sammy's way. 

Finally Sammy found a bottle of iodine and snatched it. “All right, let’s go-“

“Hold on, Sammy-boy.” Bendy was struggling to grasp a thick glass syringe through the limitations (read: sleeves) of his newfound lab coat.

“We don’t need that, Bendy.”

"Pfff, 'we don't need that, Bendy.' Come on, pal, who's the doctor here?" He finally scooped the thing up and Sammy eyed the syringe uneasily. He'd really rather not bring that thing. But he didn't have the luxury of waiting around to figure out how to tell Bendy no. 

Fighting off faint nausea, Sammy said quietly, "Back to my office. Then I'll show you how to treat wounds." 

“To your private office then, my patient!”

Sammy stuck his head out, looked around, and then darted for his office, Bendy cackling at his heels with the lab coat trailing after him, and the syringe delicately balanced in his sleeved hands.


	11. Wally, Sammy

Wally liked things simple and down to earth. Simple was good; simple was safe. But despite his better nature, Wally held a private, innocent sort of curiosity for the bizarre and otherworldly. For things that were different than the life with which he was familiar.

For a while, the most _different_ thing was Sammy Lawrence. 

Sammy was quiet, real quiet with the air of someone who had many secrets, and something about him prickled gooseflesh along Wally’s arms. When they’d first met, Wally wondered deep down if Sammy hadn’t killed a man, and buried the story of it in his past. That suspicion kept Wally skirting away from the Music Director for weeks. He’d return home in the evenings and be soothed and grateful to see his family – sometimes happy and docile, sometimes dirty and screaming, but that’s just how families were – in his little house, safe and far away from any cold darkness.

But gradually Wally had time enough to feel guilty for thinking that kind of thing about Sammy. He had time enough to wonder what was up, really, with the Music Director.

None of their – admittedly brief – interactions shed any light on this however, as Sammy was cold and reserved to all workers at the studio, particularly Wally. 

Then one day a pipe had burst near the recording studio. Wally shot into Sammy’s office with the intention of telling him, when he was arrested in place by the strangest sight.

Sammy’s fingers were buried up under his sleeve and little scars decorated up Sammy’s arm - they couldn't be anything but deliberate, not with the precise lines and patterns they were forming. Wally didn’t have any chance to figure out what they might be. Sammy shoved his sleeve down, his face contorted with rage, and Wally skidaddled out of the office quick as Sammy roared after him.

After that, Wally found himself wondering about those scars again and again, and what would possess a man to look so blissful about them. That’s about as far as Wally had gotten into investigating Sammy’s strangeness when something much more strange trotted in in the form of a real life cartoon character. One that could apparently control the studio, and one that was bent on killing him.

Now that – that was enough. Plenty. Way more _weird_ than Wally was ready to handle. But when he returned to work the next day and heard that strange creature was now being looked after by _Sammy._ Well, something about it sat with him wrong, felt eerie in his bones. Poor Henry had looked like he’d been tossed under a streetcar; no doubt he’d been up all night. But Wally couldn't help questioning his choice to leave the demon with Sammy.

Maybe it would be best to check on them. 

In fact, Wally managed to convince himself of this so much that he ended up outside the Music Director’s office door.

Wally even held up his fist to knock – but hesitated before he did. 

He wanted to know, wanted to help, even, in something so frightening and new. And maybe, a couple years ago, before his family, he would have. But now?

Letting out a shaky breath, Wally tucked his hands in his pockets and turned tail. He should just focus on getting his job done, and get out of the studio as quickly as possible.

 

 

 

Sammy unraveled his coat from his arm. There was a deep red stain on it now, and he winced. That was a lot of blood.

“Wow, it looks even worse now,” Bendy marveled, and the eager expression on his face made Sammy think he was going to start biting again – which was at once something Sammy wanted and very much didn’t want.

“I need the iodine,” Sammy prompted, “I’ll show you-“

“No need!” Bendy grinned wide, and held his syringe aloft. “I’ve got the iodine bit all covered, Sammy, just you wait-“ He stuck his tongue between his teeth and assumed a look of intense focus.

Sammy realized dumbly that Bendy planned to stick the syringe into the bottle. He planned to _inject_ iodine. Sammy fought off his dizziness and snatched the bottle back up before Bendy could have the chance. “This is how to do it-“ His shaking fingers managed to pry the cap off, and then he was dumping the orange liquid over his wound. It was messy, inelegant, but the principle of the thing was there. They needed to get this moving along.

“Hey,” Bendy sounded offended. “I could'a done that.”

“Sorry,” Sammy uttered. “Gauze – the bandages, please.”

“Got it.” Abandoning the syringe, Bendy scrunched up the sleeves of his lab coat so that they gathered in ringlets over his arms, and then he grabbed the roll of gauze.

“Unravel it?” Sammy pleaded. A disgusting blend of orange and red was oozing from his wounds.

“I know that.” Bendy hunched over and struggled to peel free the end of the gauze with his thick fingers.

“I can-“ Sammy weakly held out his good hand, but Bendy sprang out of range.

“Please,” Sammy urged. “I could die.”

That was, evidently, the wrong thing to say. “Really?” Bendy’s eyes glinted.

Sammy whined. His own desperation twined nicely in his groin (and what a sadistic thrill Bendy took in this!) but he wanted to _live_. “You need a music director, Bendy. You need someone to play for your episodes. I’ll do that for you, but I can’t if I die-“

“Oh, but I wanna watch ya die. I’ll just catch ya on the next episode, and you can make all the songs then.”

“No-“ _What_? “I – I don’t come back.”

Bendy’s brow furrowed. “But you’re a main character.”

“My God, Bendy, I don’t come back-“

“Your God?” Bendy echoed.

Sammy stared in confusion. “Bendy, the gauze, please-” The foamy mix of iodine and blood was slithering down his wrist and dripping to the floor.

“I’m your God?”

Oh. He’d misunderstood –

Laughing, Bendy stepped closer and held out the gauze. “Wow, Sammy, you move fast. That’s real flattering, though – guess ya earned a little bit more life.”

Sammy grabbed the gauze. With trembling fingers he wrapped it around his arm, over and over and over, until there were several layers from his elbow to his wrist. The end he tore with his teeth, and then tucked in beneath the other layers. Exhaling in relief, he slumped against the wall.

Shit. He was still aware of Bendy’s gaze on him, heavy and intent, and even through his throbbing arm and his dizziness, Sammy’s skin prickled delightfully. He wondered what kind of image he made, draped against the wall panting and pale from blood loss. He hoped that, however he looked, Bendy liked it.

Sammy’s thoughts drifted back to what the demon had said. Being his God. Sammy had never actually had a God, never been a believer. But if there was anything to believe in… 

“My Lord,” he tried, and the words crawled nicely down his spine.

“I like that.” Bendy grabbed the syringe again.

“Wait-“ Sammy started.

“I mean, Bendy wasn’t ever a God,” continued the demon, “but I remember that episode with Sunday worship, everybody down on their knees, and when the devil showed up-“ Bendy smiled. “All that howlin’ and runnin’. I think this God thing will fit me pretty finely. But for now, I’m still your doctor. Can’t skip episodes so fast like that.”

Without any further warning, he reared his arms back and then jammed the needle deep into Sammy’s thigh.

A very undignified yowl ripped from Sammy’s throat.

“This is a routine blood draw,” Bendy informed him matter-of-factly, and then grappled with the plunger.

“Ow, ow, Bendy-“ Sammy wrapped his good hand around the syringe to prise it off, but Bendy was much, much stronger.

“I know ya might be a little shy around needles, but this won’t hurt a bit – c’mon Sammy, why aren’tcha cooperating?”

“Please, please, my God-“ the words still felt clumsy from his lips, but if Bendy liked it (and so did Sammy, a warmth deep in his belly), “I require a – a small break. A reprieve.”

“I want to see more blood.”

“I can tell you do, and I would be very happy to-“ Sammy’s breath caught, thinking of cutting himself again, of Bendy licking it up- “show you, but first my – my Lord, let me recover.”

Bendy wrenched the syringe out. Sammy yelped and clamped his hand down on the puncture wound. Christ, he was brutal. Relentless. “Thank you,” Sammy gasped.

Bendy wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the needle with the little dotting of red along its length. In the next second, his teeth crunched straight through the glass of the syringe. Sammy watched in horror as he proceeded to eat the entire thing, leaving only little shards of glass on the floor. “That was kinda disappointing,” Bendy said after. “Only a little bit of taste.”

Sammy squeaked. But this wasn't a good time for dwelling on Bendy's strangeness. The puncture in his thigh was welling hot blood into the palm of his hand, and if he lost much more blood he was going to have a hard time staying conscious. Sammy clawed after the gauze again and wound it tight around the new injury. “Please,” he pleaded softly to Bendy, “enough. Let me recover. I will show you more when- ah.”

Bendy took Sammy’s wrist, and his serpentine tongue lapped over Sammy’s bloody palm. His tongue was cold and slick and unlike anything alive that Sammy had ever experienced. A shiver crept up his arm.

Sammy tried to control his breathing. Focus.

“There are things you should know about real life,” Sammy enunciated, as calmly as he could manage. “Things that don’t work the same as cartoons.”

Bendy made a noise of acknowledgement, tongue winding around Sammy’s fingers.

“Firstly, humans are very weak. Much weaker than you are, my Lord. If you were to kill me, that would be the end for me. I would never come back.”

Bendy hunted around for any lingering spots of blood, but there were none to be found. He released Sammy’s hand. “Don’t lie t’ me, Sammy. I know you’re just scared, but I’ll make your death a real good one, and we can both laugh about it after.”

“N-no, I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you. I-” Sammy faltered. “If you intend on killing me, I have no power to stop you. But then I will be useless to you.”

Bendy’s head tilted to the side. “What about when ya become a skeleton?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Will ya dig yourself outta your grave and pick up some instruments? I’ll like ya just the same as a skeleton, s’long as you can play just the same.”

Right. Skeletons in the Bendy cartoons were just as prone as anything else to spring up and join the cartoon antics. “That isn’t what skeletons are really like,” Sammy said carefully. “They don’t move, or dance, or sing. Death is final.”

Bendy was silent. Then, with faint disbelief, “really?”

“Really. I want to be useful to you. I can’t if I’m dead.”

“So…” Bendy said slowly. “When ya kick the bucket, that’s it? Zilch? Even if you’re a main character?”

“Yes,” Sammy nearly cried in relief.

Bendy’s expression was uncharacteristically solemn. He shrugged off the lab coat, tossed it over the chair, and wandered back to Sammy. Deep in thought, he flopped down cross-legged.

“Are you going to hurt me more?” Sammy asked cautiously.

Bendy shook his head.

Thank God. Or thank Bendy, as it were. As thrilling as it felt to be tortured by the demon, Sammy knew he couldn't handle more right now without passing out or worse. And, while he found the idea of dying at the hands of a creature like Bendy intriguing, he was not so eager to see his life actually end. Especially now that things had finally gotten interesting.

Even just sitting side by side with Bendy was a horribly dangerous experience.

There were so many things he wanted to bring up – questions about Bendy’s creation, about his existence, or maybe to point out that Sammy really was dehydrated now and needed water, or that they should probably clean the mess of this room before Henry came back – but when he opened his mouth, something else slipped through, as he breathed, “I can’t let Joey destroy you.” It felt like a confession.

Bendy laughed, torn briefly from his musings. “Don’t worry, pal, he can’t.”

Sammy again wanted to ask what exactly Bendy was. But he remembered how poorly that had gone the first time, and refrained. Instead he couldn't stop sneaking glances at the demon. Undoubtedly he was composed of ink: Sammy could smell it, sharp and biting and chemical. But how exactly he stayed together, how he worked at all, was beyond Sammy’s comprehension. And the times he had touched Sammy showed he was cold as death. Somehow Joey had brought this thing to reality.

Sammy huffed a short laugh. He’d come into work this morning, thinking it would be just as mundane and tedious as any other day. He’d entered the building already looking forward to leaving it, with his thoughts full of the tiny little notes he’d be carving into his flesh later in the evening. Never predicted he’d be faint from blood loss and in the presence of a demon. All before lunch, even.

“I got it figured out,” Bendy said suddenly.

“Huh?”

Bendy stood up; any traces of hesitation were gone, and a smirk was playing on his face. “Maybe ya right, Sammy, and people really don’t come back. That’s somethin’ I’ll fix for sure – improve on your design and all! ‘Cause some people I wanna kill and bring back over and over and over again, like you and Henry. But hey, until I get that little 'beating death' trick worked out, I better just stick t’ killin’ background characters.”

“Wait-“

“Luckily, I know just who to start with.” With a flick of his tail, Bendy headed to the door. 

" _Wait!_ " Sammy scrambled up to stop him, but dizziness rushed into his head and groaning, he clutched his skull to try to steady himself. 

"I'll come right back," Bendy's voice swam through the haze. 

No, this was very bad. It was one thing for Bendy to bite him and watch him cut himself so nicely and intimately. But for Bendy to be unleashed on the studio, to murder someone else - Sammy didn't like his coworkers, but he didn't want them _dead_ , either. "Henry told us to stay," Sammy bit out, trying furiously to focus his vision.

"He did," Bendy chirruped. "And trust me, I really was gonna stay. But then-" Bendy threw up his hands, "Then ya wanted to go to the infirmary and I thought,  _noo the creator wouldn't like that_ \- but ya said we'd be  _sneaky_ , like spies, and that was  _fun._ So." Bendy put a finger over his grinning mouth. "I'll be sneaky, Sammy. Henry'll never know. I'll come right back."

" _No_ -"

"And hey, maybe I'll get to meet some new friends!" Bendy whirled around, flicked the lock open, and then he was gone.


	12. Wally

Wally didn’t know what to do with himself.

The fact was, he couldn't focus like this was a regular day at work, because it wasn’t. Hell, it was far from it.

He’d barely even slept last night, the small demon’s voice playing over in his head, and that smile grinning eerily from every shadow. The thing wasn’t natural. And it was still loose in the studio – being looked after by Sammy, maybe, but how much could any one person control that strange, uncanny imitation of Bendy?

No, it all settled badly in Wally’s bones. He had half a mind to return to Sammy’s office, if only to know what was going on with the demon (because not knowing, that was even worse), but Wally wasn’t that dumb, no way. As soon as he’d decided not to knock, he’d known it was the right choice.

But that left what to do now.

His job was the logical choice, despite his difficulty focusing on anything except the insane reality where a cartoon demon wanted him dead. 

Wally’s morning chores nowadays entailed monitoring for spills, leaks, and breaks on the ink machine (it wasn’t what he was hired for, but good luck saying no to Joey Drew), as well as keeping an eye on the pressure levels. (Meanwhile, the job he was hired for? Yeah, that he was supposed to cram _that_ into the afternoons and evenings).

Anyway, call it superstition or something, but when Wally looped around to the ink machine to check the gauges, this crawly feeling of being watched – being _hunted_ – descended on him. It was so alike to the feeling when Bendy had snuck up on him that Wally whirled around, heart thundering - and nothing was there. The room was empty, apart from the machine itself, which was a beast hunched in the middle of the room, thudding and chugging away like a mechanical heart. The thing always creeped Wally out, even on the best of days. For the most part, he had tried not to think about it. Just do his job, get his paycheck, no questions asked.

But after last night, and with the creepy crawlies under his skin, Wally wasn’t so keen on ignoring it anymore.

Joey installed this machine and hadn’t bothered to tell a single soul why. It wasn’t helping any of the animations, that was for sure. Far as Wally knew, they were more behind than ever. The machine wasn’t even producing ink that the animators used, because they had supply closets stocked full. Until now, its purpose had frustrated and bewildered Wally. But now… Now he was starting to suspect why they had it. Wally didn’t think he was all that clever (if he were smarter, he’d probably be doing something that paid better), but it didn’t take a genius to work out a connection. The Bendy he’d seen last night had been _made_ of ink. If Wally could hazard a guess, he’d bet money that the machine was involved in Bendy’s creation.

On a weird hunch, Wally checked the pressure levels of the machine. They were lower than he’d seen them in weeks. 

Wally fiddled with his wrench. He almost stopped there, almost put his head down and kept working, because surely the big guys on top knew what they were doing, and were figuring out how to handle the demon themselves.

But then he thought about Bendy’s chilling grin, and he couldn't just ignore what he’d figured out.

He needed to learn more.

Wally was grateful to leave the ink machine’s room, and he went hunting for the single other person that worked with the system on a daily basis.

Eventually, he found Thomas reclining against the wall down in one of the utility shafts, a cigarette held between his lips.

“What do you need?” Thomas grunted when Wally walked up.

“Did you see the pressure gauge on the machine is below five?”

“Yeah, why do you think I’m smoking here and not chasing down another burst pipe? I’d be grateful if I were you. Damn thing’s been about to blow for weeks now. Don’t know why it’s fine now, but I don’t care.”

“Say,” Wally added, “don’t ya think it’s weird we don’t know what that machine does?”

“Makes ink.”

“The animators don’t even use it.”

Thomas shrugged. “If you ask me, nothing Joey Drew does makes sense.”

Wally chewed his lip. “Y'don’t ever wonder?”

“Sure. And then I stop wondering." Thomas tapped his cigarette and frowned at Wally. "The hell's gotten into you anyway? You sick or something?"

"Huh - what?"

"You're pale as a sheet. Look, just be glad the machine's not throwing a fit. Here-" He held out a cigarette; Wally shook his head. Thomas grunted and stuffed the cigarette back into his pocket. "Where's all these questions coming from?"

Wally wasn’t sure how to answer that without seeming like a lunatic. He was all coiled up and tense, wanting to tell what he’d learned this morning, and what he’d seen last night, but Henry told him not to, and he didn’t think anyone would believe him, anyway. “I just don’t think it makes any sense,” Wally settled on. “There’s gotta be something around here that’s got more information on the ink machine, right?”

Thomas shrugged again. “Sounds like you’re wasting your time, but don’t you have blueprints?”

Right! When the machine was first being built, Joey had trouble keeping employees who wanted to work on it, even in this economy. While men kept walking in and right back out the door, Wally was assigned as the person to receive the blueprints – and then distribute them whenever Joey hired new people. Wally had barely glanced at them at the time, because he had his own job to do, but he was sure they were still stashed in his office somewhere.

Wally enthusiastically thanked a very puzzled Thomas, and then he bolted to his office.

Well, truth be told, it wasn't much of an office at all. It was a reasonably sized broom closet with mops and tape and tools and any other paraphernalia he might need. It was his space, though, so he’d done his best to make it livable. He’d dragged a broken desk in and pushed it against the far wall, and similarly picked up a chair someone had set out to be trash. The floor was always a little damp, and the shelves eternally overflowing with junk, but Wally liked his little desk, and liked most of all the only splash of color in the room: a collection of drawings his daughter had made for him, which were hung up above the desk.

Wally offered the drawings a soft look before focusing on pawing through the spare parts scattered over the shelves. Blueprints, blueprints, blueprints – ah! Wally extracted a stack of messy papers and thumped them down on the desk. Each one was frayed, ink splattered – a couple even had coffee stains. The workers hadn’t been the best at keeping them in good condition, and once Wally had put them back on the shelf, he’d largely just forgotten about them.

He spread them out a bit now, not sure what he was looking for, or what he’d find. Mostly the designs were Greek to him – he didn’t know what fit where or why. Just a lot of gears. Lot of nuts and bolts and parts that connected here and there. Nothing seemed to indicate anything  _supernatural_. It was a machine, plain and simple. 

Then Wally came across a large paper he had to unfold many times to see the full breadth of. It was a sketched, 3D floor plan of the entire studio, each level afforded its own separate drawing on the paper. This outlined the entire reach of the machine - which Wally found to be even more immense than he'd originally thought. Pipes snaked under floors, in the ceiling, buried in the walls, all across the entire studio, like one giant spider's web, encasing all the rooms within it. 

Even Wally's broom closet, a tiny rectangle on the map, was wound tight with piping. It set an uneasy thrum into Wally’s heart. It seemed like something malevolent held the entire studio in its grip.

If one were to dismantle the piping, or to shut down the machine… would it help? Would it diminish Bendy's power, or even kill him? At first the idea seemed ridiculous, and Wally felt stupid for thinking it. Bendy wasn’t the machine: he was his own terrifying entity.

But then... when he’d been chasing Wally, the pipes had burst as if prompted, as if _controlled_ , and he’d somehow manipulated the entire hallway to trap in Wally. It didn’t seem like too much of a stretch to think maybe there was still a surviving connection between Bendy and the machine, right? That if one were destroyed…

“Come on, Wally,” he muttered to himself. “Henry probably already knows that…” But if he did, wouldn't he be working to dismantle the machine? Wally stalled, debating if this was going to be another one of those things where he brought up a concern about the studio only to get shot down for it. That happened a lot, and he'd mostly learned to keep his silence. 

But this? This was important, real important. Probably. And even if Henry already knew, maybe having this outline and the blueprints of the entirety of the ink machine could be helpful to him. Resolved, Wally stuffed the sheets into a manila folder and darted out of his office. He was on his way to the infirmary when he rounded a corner and nearly crashed right into somebody. 

The abruptness of it almost made him jump two feet in the air, and Wally clutched the folder tight to his chest. Jeez, he'd been expecting something else. Something with too wide a grin.

But it wasn't Bendy. It was Allison, the new voice actor for Alice Angel. She wore a very modest blue and grey dress with a tight black sash, and was frowning at Wally as if questioning his mental facilities. "Sorry," she said.

Wally skirted around her, apologizing, and continued down the hall.

"Hold on," Allison suddenly said, and Wally half turned back. "You haven't seen Mister Lawrence around, have you?" she asked.

Wally's mouth fell open, and he had every intention of saying comprehensible words. Instead, no convenient lies leapt to his head. He stared mutely, thinking that he couldn't just tell Allison that the Music Director was looking after Bendy, who, by the way, had been brought to life by some infernal means.

“It’s only,” Allison continued, looking a little worriedly at his expression, “we were scheduled to record my first song for Alice this morning, but I can’t find him anywhere. Nobody in the band has any idea.”

It was such a normal thing to say, so far removed from what Sammy was actually doing, that again Wally at first didn't know how to respond. Then he thought about where Allison might go to _find_ Sammy, and he rushed to say, “Don’t-go-to-his-office!” If anybody else came across that demon, oh, Wally didn't feel good about their chances of survival.

“Ookaay. I… already did, but he wasn’t there. I’m sorry, I should go– ” Allison glanced back the way she had came, clearly uncomfortable.

"Wait, he wasn't there?" Wally asked in horror. 

"Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine. What do you mean he wasn't there?"

Allison threw up her hands. "I don't know, the door was wide open, he wasn't there. Look, I need to go find him-" 

"Don't!" Wally grabbed her wrist as she turned, his heart thundering. If they weren't in his office, they could be anywhere. Then a worse thought struck:  _what if the demon had killed Sammy?_  

"Please let go of me," Allison said in tight, measured tones. 

Wally let go immediately as if scalded. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I just – Did you see Bendy?” he asked in a rush. Only after the question shot from his mouth did he realize it was a confusing and idiotic thing to ask, but Allison, instead of being confused, immediately looked annoyed, as if she wasn’t surprised by the question, just irritated.

“Not you too…” she groaned softly.

“Wait. What? Where is he?”

Allison shook her head. “I just want to do my job like everyone else, okay? I’m here to voice Alice Angel, not have pranks played on me. Thanks.”

Wally didn’t grasp what she was saying at all. “It’s simple, did ya see Bendy or not?”

“No. I didn’t see a cartoon character running around the studio. I get you might find it funny, trying to convince me that there’s a demon on the loose, but I know the difference between fiction and reality.”

She turned to walk away, and Wally bolted after her. “Wait! Who’s saying Bendy’s running around the studio?”

She tucked her head down and walked faster. “You already know. You're both in it together."

"Just humor me," Wally begged. 

"Fine. Charly. Obviously it's Charly."

Wally blinked. He didn't know any Charly, not anyone who worked at the studio anyway. 

"Charly, one of the violinists in the band..." Allison said slowly, stopping. Her arms crossed. "Do you really not know him?"

"But he saw Bendy?" Wally prompted.

She shook her head. "I don't know. This morning he was really wigged out, kept saying he saw -" Allison made a short gesture that demonstrated how bewildering she found the idea, "yeah,  _Bendy_ , like the cartoon character, _in_ the studio. Alive. I thought he was crazy at first, and then he started trying to convince me... I thought it was some prank." Allison shook her head. "If you don't even know Charly, how'd you know about that prank?"

"I, I don't," Wally said tightly. "I just got mixed up. Um, thank you." Wally darted around the corner and exhaled heavily. It really was best not to bring too many people into this - but where had Charly seen Bendy? More importantly, why was the demon no longer in Sammy's office?  _Where was he if not there?_ Oh, did it make him feel uneasy.  _Unsafe._ Like all the walls were watching him.

This was it, he decided. He'd deliver these blueprints to Henry, and then he'd hunt down Joey and request a sick day. He'd never taken a single sick day for the entirety of his employment at this studio - and frankly, he was scared to ask for one, given Joey's policies on sick days... But docked wages were better than this feeling crawling under his skin. He could survive on oatmeal for a few days.

Wally set off again, and almost immediately stopped. He didn't recognize where he was at. He knew the studio like the back of his hand at this point, even the new areas under construction, but where he was at now? It wasn't familiar. But more importantly, it didn't have any visible exits. Which meant-

"Hi there, pal," said a high-pitched voice, cheery as could be.

 _No-_ Terror shot through him, but he had no time to react at all before something cracked viciously against his knee - the blueprints sprayed across the floor as Wally collapsed, terrifyingly certain something in his knee had just shattered; the noise that ripped from his throat was a tortured yowl. 

"Wow," Bendy said. "Can ya make that noise again?"

A shadow shifted over him; Wally didn't think, just acted, and his limbs stupidly backpeddled over the floor until his spine thudded hard against the wall. 

Bendy. The demon. He was smiling eerily, and clutching Wally's wrench, in no hurry at all to chase after him.

No no _no_. Wally was supposed to get the blueprints to Henry, supposed to get out of the studio. "Howdid you get that-" he gasped out hoarsely, the pain in his knee a throbbing, searing ache (what if Bendy _had_ broken it, what if it would never be the same - no, focus on  _surviving_ ).

"Just grabbed it right offa ya, duh." Bendy stroked his fingers over the wrench. "It's nice t' see ya again, Wally. I learned  _a lot_  since I saw ya last. Didja know blood is red?"

That didn't sound good. Wally did not like that one bit. Then the brunt of _how_ Bendy might have learned that struck him. "You killed Sammy," Wally said in horror. 

Bendy "Pff, nah, I'll get him later. You're gonna be my first, Wally. And I was gonna have him watch, but here’s the thing – ya never should have an audience when you’re doin’ somethin’ the first time. What if I’m bad at killin’ ya? What if I don’t do a bang-up job? Nah, better to keep it private, just you an’ me.”

That cleared up any doubt about why Bendy was here, if Wally hadn't already been certain the demon wanted to kill him. "D-don't-" Wally's eyes roved around the room - there had to be some way to protect himself, some exit- There was a desk, a radio perched on it, paper, but little else - maybe the radio?

“Aw, no need to worry. See, I’m invested in learnin’ how to beat death, now that I know it’s all permanent.” Bendy paused and peered at Wally, as if waiting for Wally to disagree. When he didn’t, Bendy nodded. “So ya see, I thought you’d be my little test subject. First pass, how-to. Learn how t’ kill and how to unkill, all in one fell swoop.”

“Please don’t,” Wally pleaded. “I’ll do anything.”

“Don’t really care.” When he spoke next, it was softer, breathier, “gosh. Wally, I’m real excited. I’ve been wantin’ to do this my whole life. That’s more than a day.”

Wally whimpered. “Please, Bendy. I-I don’t wanna die, I’ll do anything for you, anything you want.”

“Y’don’t understand,” Bendy murmured. “Ya aren’t listenin’ to how I feel. A whole day, Wally, with this- this feelin’ in me. An ache. I gotta know what it’s like, makin’ one of you humans die.”

Wally tried to form more words, but his lungs were clenched tight. He could barely breathe. 

“Well!” a wide smile spread across Bendy’s face. “Enough chitter chatter.”

He raised the wrench back. 

Wally bolted; the wrench struck the floor behind him. 

“Oh,” Bendy cooed. “Are we playin’ hard to get?”

Wally's knee exploded with pain the second he put weight on it, but he had no choice. He dove for the desk, his hands scrambled for the radio. 

“Well, I don’t mind drawin’ it out either,” Bendy spun the wrench in his hand as he approached. “I’ve gotten to really like ya, Wally, and I want to make this-" Wally chucked the radio. It was almost comical how Bendy entirely failed to dodge the projectile - except Wally was having a hard time feeling anything but terror. When the radio struck him, the demon almost immediately lost his form and splashed down into a puddle, while the wrench clattered to the floor. This time, Wally knew it was going to be temporary (he was horribly convinced that the demon was unkillable - at least by these means).

Wally summoned what little courage he had and snatched the wrench up from the floor (least he could do was give himself a better weapon, and take away Bendy's). Clutching it tight, he looked around the room and realized there was now a hall, leading out. Maybe striking Bendy didn't actually _damage_ him, but it did seem to distract him, or tear away whatever focus kept the studio warping to his whims. That _,_ Wally thought, was another piece of information he needed to share with Henry. If he could just get away-

Running made splinters of pain crunch and sprawl through his knee, but Wally was beyond caring. He'd happily live the rest of his days with a screwed up leg if it meant he'd just  _survive._

But the chances of that did not look good. A pipe burst right above him with the sound of a gunshot; sludgy black ink doused him and then it was _grabbing_ at him, with dozens of clawing hands. Wally blindly swung the wrench, but something snatched it, tugged hard. It was a brief, pitiful struggle against something that much much stronger than himself. Soon the wrench was ripped from his hands, hard enough to nearly jerk his arms from his sockets. Then ink wound around his arms and legs, clung to him like a second skin - but one tight and immobile. 

“You’re one stubborn guy, I’ll give ya that," came the demon's voice. "Tryin' t' mess up my first try at this whole thing, yeesh, talk about selfish!"

Wally's head whipped around to find Bendy standing there, hands clasped behind his back. He was eerily calm.

“Please,” Wally pleaded hoarsely. He didn’t think Bendy was capable of anything like empathy or mercy, but he didn’t know how else to appeal to the demon, how else to save himself. He felt like a fly snared in a web, and it terrified him how none of this followed logic he knew and understood. It was  _ink_ encasing him - that wasn't supposed to be possible. Then again, cartoon characters weren't supposed to walk off the page, either. None of this made sense, none of this should be happening, and for a moment, Wally desperately tried to believe this wasn't reality. 

Ink flowed up to Bendy, deposited the wrench in his open palm. He was staring with hollow, soulless eyes. It was impossible but impossibly real. 

Wally jerked pointlessly in his bindings. "Don't kill me. Don't, please don't- I don't want to die-"

Flicking his tail, Bendy approached. 

Desperation made Wally's words fall apart, "I've got a family, I - please - please just don't-"

The end of the wrench lightly touched his hip. Then Bendy slowly trailed it down his thigh. "Gee, you make such a great argument, Wally, but... nah."

Wally degenerated into whimpers; Bendy reared the wrench back. It slammed over his thigh. 

Wally crumpled with a cry, the ink releasing him, but fear override the immense amounts of pain, and even as he sobbed at the excruciating sensation, he scooted himself backward, as if he could possibly escape the studio scooting on his butt like a child.

There was a noise from down the hall, footsteps, halting. Wally swung his gaze that direction to find the thin, towering shape of Sammy Lawrence, shock written across his face.  

"Sammy," Wally gasped. "Sammy, save me, stop him-"

The Music Director stared. And he wasn't moving. Wasn't trying to stop Bendy. Wasn't doing anything but watching.

" _Sammy!"_ Wally screamed.The wrench whipped against Wally's skull. Whitehot pain blinded him. 

When the world returned, Wally was hunched over, staring down at his hands and the blood dripping from his skull to the floorboards. Shit. This was very very bad. Dizzily Wally tried to sit up, but the studio whirled nauseatingly. "Bendy," he slurred. "Don't-" 

 _Crack_.

Wally's head thudded to the floor. His eyes hazily focused. Black ink shoes. Tiny legs and a tiny body. Bendy was grinning wide, the wrench held high above his head.

"See ya, Wally."


	13. Sammy

Wally was dead.

Of that fact Sammy had no doubt.

Bendy either didn’t realize that, or didn’t care. The wrench came down over and over again (not minding at all that it was pulverizing a corpse) and Bendy couldn't look happier about it. The organic crunching noises were getting disturbingly  _wet_.

Sammy? He had seen his fair share of brutal things. Living on a farm lent itself to a few rough experiences. But nothing, _nothing_  remotely compared to the sheer savagery of the demon repeatedly whacking a blunt object into the shattered skull of Wally Franks, brains and blood spilling out like a ruptured cobbler.

Sammy was nauseous watching. Twisted up in his guts screamed an outrage that he hadn’t stopped Bendy – he hadn’t even really _tried_ , even though he _intended_ to. But as soon as he’d seen Bendy doused in rapturous glee as he maimed Wally… Well, Sammy couldn’t bring himself to interrupt him. And that… that was worrisome. He even felt awful, on some level. He was aware of how wrong and sick his own emotions were, which left him scrambling to find some scrap of humanity – surely his mind was changed on Bendy now? Surely his conscience would kick in, and sooner or later, he’d feel proper guilt?

But he couldn’t stop watching. Even with nausea churning in his belly, even with the hollow sense he _should_ stop.

Bendy was…

Intense.

He was laughing - a high-pitched, wild sort of sound - while his tail danced behind him, and brain matter got smashed to smithereens against an inky puddle. The demon was _ecstatic_. Hot envy burned through Sammy’s revulsion. He wanted to make Bendy feel that good. He wanted to cause that sort of ecstasy. It was the wrong response. It was so so badly the wrong response.

 _Wally was a human being_ , he tried to remind himself. But didn’t that only make it more grand? He’d been a living breathing person only ten minutes ago, and in such a short span of time, Bendy had ended that - more than that, he had ended it with immense pleasure.

“My Lord,” Sammy murmured reverentially, and it came easier this time, slipped off his tongue as natural as music.

Those two words seemed to snap Bendy from his fervor, perhaps reminding him that Sammy existed. The wrench clattered to the floor. Bendy giggled, and wrapped his arms around himself. He had blood speckled across his front.

“Wow,” he breathed. “My first time and everything.” He cast a bloodthirsty look at Sammy that sent heat straight to his groin. “Didn’t mean for you t’ watch, but I think I did all right, didn’t I? He’s dead, right?”

“Yes.” Sammy licked his lips. He became aware of the fact he was still shaking, either from his own blood loss, the scene he had just witnessed, or the knowledge Bendy could just as easily kill him. Most likely all of the above. “You were incredible.”

“Aw, shucks.” Bendy’s hands traveled up, touched the sides of his face and his horns and back down, as if making sure he was still himself, that nothing had changed. “ _That_ was incredible,” he finally said. “Wowee. Even more fun than I expected.”

Vomit tickled at Sammy’s throat; he clasped a hand to his mouth and swallowed it down furiously. He needed to keep it together. He was just – a little light headed. Very light headed.

The images replayed in his head: Wally yowling and shuffling pathetically backwards like an animal, his body thudding to the floor, skull fragments breaking, brain chunks spattered into pulp. That scene was going to stick with him. Would be entrenched in his consciousness, perhaps infiltrate his nightmares, and make him wake up panicking in cold sweat.

The whole ordeal, meanwhile, had only put Bendy in a melty, pleased state. That was a disturbing and unfairly arousing observation. Killing made Bendy happy. Killing was soothing for him.

“Well,” Bendy murmured finally, and even his words were a touch more relaxed, “I think I got that whole _kill_ thing down pat. Bodies really don’t do anything after they die, huh?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Then let’s try the _un_ killing.”

There was a shifting. Sammy felt it not so much as a physical sensation, but a mental one. A sense of something alive and oppressive and intent, not just in front of him in the form of Bendy’s small body, but _everywhere_. In the walls. Under his feet. Above his head. It was a claustrophobic, trapped sort of feeling, like being watched from all angles.

Bendy was focusing, he realized. Determined to get it right. The ink puddle that Wally was laying in twitched, rippled. Then, all at once, inky rivulets flowed through the lumpy ruined mass of his head, and slithered into his eyes, nose, mouth, ears. The sight sickened Sammy, and despite his determination to watch, he had to turn his head away. For several moments he only heard sounds: shifting liquid and squelching meat. The world spun, and Sammy screwed his eyes shut. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Oh god, Bendy was vile. So gloriously vile. His presence was thick against Sammy’s skin, despite the fact they were not standing near each other. Bendy was _everywhere_.

Sammy really should be running. Screaming. Getting help. Doing _something_. Part of him screeched to do just those things. To, for just one second in his life, be normal.

Sammy had never been very good at that. He steadied himself, and forced himself to look again. Wally’s body was swollen with ink. It shifted and writhed under his skin, making all his limbs grey and mushy-looking, and he was twitching and moving, like a puppet jerking on strings.

This was, apparently, Bendy’s first idea for bringing something back to life.

Suddenly, it was all too much. The murder, the ink, Bendy. It was overwhelming. He needed away. Sammy staggered down the hall; he burst into the bathroom where he gripped the toilet seat and vomited out his breakfast.

Sweat crawled along his skin, and he was visibly shaking as he wiped his lips. That… that was so far removed from anything Sammy had ever witnessed in his life.

 _Get Henry,_ he thought. _Henry can help._

But Henry couldn't stop what Bendy had already done. Wally was dead already anyway… Why not let Bendy enjoy what he was doing for now? Let him play. 

Chilled by his own thoughts, Sammy went to the sink, rinsed his mouth out, and splashed water on his face. How curious, how swiftly he had warped his morals the second they were tested. Then again, these were unusual circumstances. If he had witnessed a murder committed by another person, he would have responded differently, he was sure. But Bendy wasn't a person. He was something much, much greater, regardless of whatever body he chose to appear in. Sammy had never liked people much anyway. 

Sammy sipped water from his cupped hands, and then met his own gaze in the mirror. His face was abnormally pale, his eyes round and pupils dilated. He didn’t look healthy, not right now. He looked very much as he felt: anemic and terrified and just a touch manic. In his opinion, this was an improvement from the bored, haughty face that normally stared back at him, a face sick of the work routine, sick of people.

Sammy smoothed back a few hairs that were out of place. This was very different, yes. He raised his forearm to gaze at the bandages in the mirror, as part of the complete image of himself. There was something exquisite about seeing himself like this. He wanted to unravel the bandages, and admire the wounds as they were, stark and harsh on his arm. He wanted to relish the extent of the damage that was done to his own skin, by a creature so cold and unfathomable as to kill a person for the sheer fun of it. Sammy resisted the impulse. He needed to return.

He checked himself once over again, and then left the bathroom.

When he arrived back, there was a bloody, deflated ink-stained lump on the floor in front of Bendy, looking much less like a person even than when Sammy had left. It wasn’t moving at all, and Bendy didn’t look so pleased anymore. The closer Sammy neared, the chillier his bones became. It was impossible to stand in Bendy’s presence without being profoundly aware of his sublime malevolence. 

“It didn’t work,” Bendy muttered.

“My Lord?” Sammy prompted.

“I tried, Sammy, but I couldn't bring him back. Could puppet him, ‘n’ make him dance ‘round a bit, but he was still _dead_. Didn’t do a thing on his own.”

Sammy wasn’t sure if what Bendy wanted was even possible. But it didn’t matter. “You must not be discouraged,” he said pleadingly. “You can’t do such a thing on the first try. Beating death? That has never been done before. It will take time to learn. Patience. And practice." Sammy was frightened by what he was suggesting. But intrigued.

Bendy glanced his way thoughtfully.

Sammy dared to approach, stepping around the blood and ink. The smell was overpoweringly rancid. “What you already did achieve…” Sammy’s breath caught in his throat. “That was magnificent. The elegant cruelty of doing such a thing to a person…”

 _Wally_ , his mind supplied. Wally, the ratty little janitor that had always been skirting at his heels, jabbering on about losing this or that.

Bendy’s tail curled in pleasure at the words. “It was a little messy,” he dismissed, but he was smiling again and looking at Sammy with an expression that could be affection or could be a desire to kill him and was probably a little bit of both.

“It was horrible,” Sammy said with admiration. Being this close to Bendy, it was electric.

Bendy’s gaze drifted down. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I’d almost forgotten all about that.”

Sammy didn’t understand until Bendy’s hand clamped down over his crotch, _way too hard_.

“Hrk!” Sammy crumpled instantly, agony shooting up his hips and into his stomach. He ended on the floor, hands pressed tenderly between his legs.

“Well that seems like an extreme reaction,” Bendy remarked.

Sammy swore quietly. This wasn't the sort of pain he'd been imagining or hoping for. Wasn't the sort of atmosphere he had just been reveling in.The abrupt change left him reeling, and in his addled mind he fully realized how little Bendy understood of normal human conventions. Normal human  _anything._ Bendy was beautifully twisted, but vastly naive, with only the shallowest understanding of a non-cartoon reality.  

“I just wanted to see,” Bendy said. “Henry wouldn't show me. But you’ll show me, right?”

"Henry...?" Sammy hissed through his teeth at the second wave, then ground out, "how... how do you even know of... this particular subject?"

Bendy waved his hand dismissively. “Found some pictures in Joey’s desk, but I was way too distracted at the time to think about it much.”

Pictures in Joey’s desk. “Jesus, Joey,” he muttered. He was never going to go to Joey’s office again if he could avoid it. Sammy cautiously pushed himself into a sitting position, then kept his hands safely clasped over his manhood, as the pain dwindled and his stomach settled.

“But I ain’t never seen a cartoon with one,” Bendy continued. “C’mon Sammy, just unbutton your pants. I thought y’liked me.”

"I..." Sammy faltered. He wanted to do whatever Bendy asked. But this... "Surely you don't truly care about something so base and human?" 

"Ain't got a clue what you're talkin' about Sammy: I just wanna know what the heck it is. Yeesh, it's like you an' Henry both got some big ol' secret down there. Just makes a guy more curious."

He only wanted to see. That was all. It was purely academic. "It _is_ generally a private thing," Sammy replied slowly.

"I like private things. Are you gonna obey or am I gonna hafta make ya?"

Bendy probably had no idea the implications of that sort of statement. It settled very nicely in Sammy's stomach anyway.

“Sammy,” Bendy growled, and Sammy figured he’d reached the end of the demon’s patience.

“Yes,” Sammy said breathily. “Yes – Yes, my Lord.” He furtively glanced around the hall. They were still alone. He’d make this fast, get it over with, and then they could tackle dealing with the fact they had a dead body in blatant view (which made all this feel only more surreal).

He hadn't undressed in front of someone in over a decade, but Bendy was not just anyone. And he wanted to do as the demon asked, regardless of his own apprehension.  

"I have never been fond of it," Sammy offered as a nervous prelude, hoping that Bendy would not be disgusted. With shaky fingers he undid the fly of his trousers, and extricated himself from his underclothes. It lay outside his pants rather ugly in his opinion, and mostly flaccid at this point. The sheer anxiety of showing off something he had never been overly proud of didn't help him to feel anything but humiliation. He cast a nervous glance at Bendy, ready to apologize, to tuck himself away. He was sure Bendy would dislike it also, and want nothing more to do with it.

Bendy laughed; Sammy flinched.

“It’s big,” Bendy said.

“I’m sorry, I'm-“ Sammy moved to stuff himself back into his trousers, when Bendy intercepted and grabbed his length much too tightly. Sammy immediately thudded his hands to the floor and breathed unsteadily. He did not trust Bendy to not hurt him. But he knew he couldn't force him off. He couldn't make Bendy do anything. The demon was still splattered with blood for god's sakes, as if Sammy needed any more blatant proof that he was dangerous and uncontrollable. 

"What's it do?" Bendy asked, squeezing. Sammy nearly bit through his lip. 

"Please, Bendy - not so hard; it hurts-"

"What's it for?" Bendy said in a sing-song.

"It's... it's for copulation."

"Say, what's copulation?"

Sammy's cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Copulation. Fornication. My Lord, please not so hard-"

"You're speakin' another language here, Sammy-boy."

"It's - it's something people do," Sammy said lamely. 

Bendy finally released him, and a sigh whooshed from Sammy's mouth. But Bendy was gazing at him with an intent look. "Why don't cartoons do it? What kinda unfair world is that?"

Sammy scrambled for words. "They - they _can_." A few lewd sketches came to mind, ones the animators made for laughs just to be vulgar. Joey had been furious, not that he was one to talk, apparently.

"They can?" Bendy perked up. "Gee Sammy, no need t' be all close-lipped. Why don'tcha show me how to do it?"

"It's for adults," Sammy said weakly, as if his own clumsy experiences hadn't come in his gangly teen years - experiences thoroughly mortifying owing to his lack of skill.

Bendy tilted his head to the side. "I ain't a kid, Sammy Lawrence." 

No, he wasn't. Sammy wasn't sure he was an adult, either. Bendy didn't fit neatly anywhere on the spectrum of human ages. He was some sort of ageless monster.  

"With respect, my Lord, it requires two individuals and-" Sammy hesitated. "I don't think you are capable of it."

Bendy's tail lashed, and he made an affronted noise. "I can do anythin' a cartoon can do." He pointed between Sammy's legs. "What, do I need one o' those? To _copulate?_ "

"No." Sammy was having some trouble properly breathing. There was a hazy heavy disbelief that this entire conversation was happening, particularly in regards to  _where_ it was happening, or  _what_ was around them. The smell of ink and blood was still cloyingly thick. Maybe that was muddling his mind. Because something absolutely had to be. Maybe it was Bendy's influence alone. Whatever it was, Sammy felt possessed as he lifted his hand. His fingers were long, thin, and still trembling. With the lightest of caresses, he touched between Bendy's legs. "You need something here. To accommodate me." Humiliation shuffled in a tad late, and Sammy rushed to add, "but this, my Lord, in this I am not very skilled, and surely you don't want-"

"Ah, shaddup. That thing's supposed to go in my body? That's what ya mean?"

Sammy made a noise like a trampled mouse as he tried to figure out what to say, but Bendy evidently took that as confirmation enough, as he was suddenly clambering into Sammy's lap, and there were limbs everywhere, gloved fingers gripping his shirt, a tail licking around his thigh, booted feet nudging his hips, and then Bendy's cheerful face was much much closer, and he was grinning wide.

"Wait-" Sammy said, as if all the air in his lungs had decided to disappear. 

"This is ee-zee," Bendy stated with relish. He grabbed Sammy's flaccid length, shoved both his hand and Sammy's dick straight into his own body between his legs (ink splattered across Sammy's entire front), and then he removed his hand. Ink readily reformed and Sammy stared in horror at the fact he was now enveloped in the viscous substance. It was cold. Unpleasantly cold and wet. Bendy's tail flicked and brushed his inner thighs. 

"We're copulating," Bendy said happily.

Sammy was petrified. He was inside Bendy. He was inside - a character Joey had designed. Sammy nearly laughed from the absurdity of it, except for the fact this wasn't at all the Bendy from the cartoons themselves, this was Bendy the demon that had just murdered Wally Franks for fun. And Sammy's most sensitive organ was - god, it had to be very deep in Bendy, given how much smaller he was than Sammy. He couldn't muster any humor out of his terror. 

"I can feel ya in me," Bendy said thoughtfully. "Weird kinda feelin', but I like it." He looked from left to right. "So uh, anythin' else happen?"

"Yes," Sammy gasped out. "There is normally... movement."

"That's not all that descriptive."

"May - may I touch you, my Lord? To show you?" If Bendy wanted to experience this, then however unskilled Sammy was, he wanted to help him. And being squeezed by his ink, however chilly it was... Sammy couldn't deny that it wasn't all unpleasant. It was only fitting - only right - that his first time after so many years should be with this monster, so long as Bendy wanted him, too.

"Sure thing, Sammy." Bendy looked as unbothered as ever, and Sammy could easily guess this experience was not pleasurable in the same way to him. That he did it for casual curiosity and perhaps fun, but not for any inherent sexual drive.

Well, so long as it entertained him... Sammy would continue. 

Breathlessly, he curled his long fingers around Bendy's body, thinking to guide the demon, when a high pitched screech made him nearly jump out of his bones. His hands let go instantly and shot to his chest; his head whipped to the side. 

There was someone at the end of the hall. Grey dress, a ribbon, long dark hair. Allison. The new voice actor. Sammy's heart dropped into his stomach because he could only imagine what one might feel, stumbling across this scene... with him, and Bendy. With Wally very very much dead. Sammy had been so caught up in everything, he hadn't thought - of course anybody could have come along at any time. And it was much too late now.

Allison took a staggering step back. Her eyes locked with Sammy's. 

He knew he should be mortified, he should try to find words to rectify the situation. But none existed. And the way she looked at him, as if he was just as unfathomable and monstrous - oh, it did feel nice.

"Hi," Bendy said, and waved. "We're copulating."

Then Allison was gone. Her footsteps tore away and faded. 

"Boy, she ain't very friendly, is she?" Bendy remarked. 

 


	14. Henry

Henry woke to the sound of screaming.

Instantly he was half-climbing half-falling out of the bed, his body sluggish but his mind zapping along swiftly, _Bendy, Bendy, where’s Bendy-_

He tripped over the upended coat rack and nearly lost his front teeth on the infirmary steps before managing to scramble out of the room in one piece. He swung his head side to side, at first thinking to go to Sammy’s office, but raised voices were coming from the other direction, from the recording studio. Making a split second decision, he bolted that way instead.

When he burst into the recording studio, he found a crowd of people – band members, and a few others - all gathered around Allison, who looked to be in hysterics.

“I know what I saw!” Allison was half-screaming, “I’m not lying – a man is dead!”

This drew chortles from a few band members, but had Henry freezing in place. “Who’s dead?” he demanded, but it was drowned out with,

“And Bendy walked right off the page, suuure-“

“Because cartoons just come to life-“

And a more concerned individual, “why don’t you sit down, ma’am? I can bring you some water-”

“I’m not going to sit down!” Allison tore out of the man’s grasp and glared daggers. “Someone has died! If you would just _listen to me_ -”

Henry pushed to the middle of the crowd. “Allison, who’s dead?”

Allison stared at him. “You believe me?”

“Then you’re as crazy as her,” someone remarked. “She’s saying _Bendy’s_ walking around the studio, get a load of that!”

“All of you should go home,” Henry said tensely. Nobody was safe here. It had been so stupid to think that somebody wouldn't get hurt, and in his negligence, someone had _died_. That someone undoubtedly was Sammy. God, Henry had sent him to his grave. He should have known… “Go home, now!” Henry repeated, when everyone merely stared at him in bewilderment.

Laughing, a band member retorted, “come on, nothing except a direct order from Joey Drew himself would get me to leave early. You know how he treats people cutting work!”

Another, “I’m keeping my job, thanks. Not gonna buy this pile of crap.”

“This order comes from Joey,” Henry lied. “There’s a gas leak in the building. Everyone has the day – the week – off.”

But his comment was met with only cynicism and insistence that they weren’t going to ditch until Joey said so, which was due less to loyalty and more to Joey’s medieval work policies.

Henry resolved to get Joey to spread the message, since his coworkers were clearly not going to listen to him. Henry then turned his regard back to Allison. “Will you come with me?” he requested. “We can talk about this somewhere else.”

She hesitated, but with one good look at his solemn expression, she nodded.

It was to jeers and confused questions that he slipped out of the recording studio, with Allison at his heels. He headed towards Sammy’s office.

“What’s going on here?” Allison hissed. “You know something, don't you? What's happening?”

“I don't know a lot.  Only that Bendy is something Joey created, or at least summoned to the studio. That he isn't natural. You saw him?"

Allison nodded mutely.

"And he killed someone?"

Alice’s eyes were tormented, disturbed, and Henry dreaded to imagine what she had seen. He expected her to say Sammy and instead, she said, “It was the janitor – I don’t even know his name, god above - Henry, I’d just spoken to him hours before. He was terrified, going on about Bendy, and I – I was rude to him. If I had just listened-“

“Wally,” Henry uttered through a numb tongue. Not Sammy, then – not as far as Allison knew, at least. But god, poor Wally.

“He – he looked awful, Henry, he barely –“ her breath caught. “He was in pieces. And – and-“

Sammy’s office door was wide open. When Henry peered in, he found bloodstains on the floor, as well as an iodine bottle, ink spatters, and bandages. A lab coat hung over Sammy’s chair. But no sign of Bendy or Sammy. No body at least, which is what Henry had been certain he'd find. 

He rounded on Allison. “Where did Bendy go? Where did you see him?”

Allison touched her fingers to her temples and shook her head. “Why is this happening?” She looked on the verge of panic, and Henry didn’t know how to begin to soothe her when he himself could collapse at any minute.

“I don’t know,” Henry said honestly. “But we need to find him before someone else gets killed. You need to tell me what you saw.”

“It wasn’t part of the studio, Henry. Well, it _was_ , but not any part I had ever seen before. I turned a corner looking for Sammy, and suddenly I was somewhere different, and – I know I sound crazy, Henry, but you have to believe me. The hallways and rooms _changed._  I - I saw them and ran. I don't think I could make it back to that spot if I tried."

“I believe you. I’m getting pretty used to crazy,” Henry grimly replied. It surprised him very little that Bendy had additional monstrous powers, including the ability to either rearrange the studio, or to make one believe he had. “Did you see Sammy with him?” Henry asked. “He was supposed to be looking after Bendy.”

Oddly, this particular question had Allison averting her eyes, and her breath got shakier. “I… Yes. He was there.”

“Was he okay?”

“I don’t really know what I saw.” Her voice was edging nearer to hysterics again.

“Okay. Okay.” Henry stopped. This whole interrogation wasn’t doing any good for Allison. He’d gotten what he needed to know. “We have to get you out of the studio.”

Allison nodded mutely.

They weren’t far from the exit. Henry could take Allison there, then go to Joey’s office and get him to make the other workers leave. Once everybody was evacuated, Henry could then renew the search for the demon. Having a plan helped stabilize him. It kept him from succumbing to the horror and despair that accompanied this whole nightmare, though again and again Henry’s mind replayed the words Allison had spoken, and tried to make sense of the fact he had seen Wally just this morning, and now the janitor was dead. He never truly grasped it.

“Come on,” Henry said blankly, “I’ll take you back.” _Wally’s dead. Dead. Dead._

Allison followed behind. “What’s going to happen to the studio?” she asked. “To everyone else?”

“I’ll get them out too.” He had to. He needed to get everyone far away.

“And you?”

“I’m going to find a way to defeat him.”

“Henry-“ she chewed her lip. “I wish you luck.”

He nodded tersely. He was going to need all the luck he could get, and much more than just luck. He hurried Allison through the halls, always keeping an eye out for the little demon or Sammy, but nothing interrupted them and they made it to the front door with no trouble. “Don’t come back,” Henry said. “At least not until you get notice it’s safe.”

Allison was pale. “Trust me, I won’t.” Her face said that she didn't intend on returning at all. Henry didn't blame her. After all this was over (assuming it would end), Henry didn't think he'd want to come back, either. He might want to pursue an entirely different career path.

Wishing that he could leave with Allison, Henry grabbed the door knob and twisted.

Nothing happened.

The door didn’t open.

“Is it locked?” Allison asked.

“It… doesn’t lock from the inside.” Maybe it was jammed. Henry grabbed the knob with both hands and yanked hard. Still nothing. His heart thudded anxiously. No no, he had just used this very exit in the morning; why wasn’t it opening now?

“Henry…” Allison’s palm slid along the seam of the door. “Henry, this _isn’t_ a door.”

“What?” he said blankly, and then reached out to touch the seam himself. Except there was no seam. There was no gap. All of it was solid wood.

“It’s a fake door,” Allison uttered in disbelief. “A painted one.”

“A cartoon one,” Henry agreed, his words hollow. A fake cartoon door - they had always been played for laughs, but Henry was having a hard time finding any amusement at all in the situation. Earlier, Bendy had unlocked the door on his own, and removed the sign Henry had placed, enabling everyone to come into work. It only made sense he’d then ensure nobody could leave.

“We’re stuck.” Allison stepped back. “We’re all stuck here with that thing.”

No sooner had she spoken than yelling erupted deeper in the studio. Henry swore, and bolted back down the hall, Allison calling after him.

He didn’t make it far before he nearly collided with a stream of people pouring up from the lower floor.

“What’s going on?” he asked, “what’s happening?” but they shoved past him and thundered for the exit. Nervously, Henry looked after them, wondering if he couldn't help in some way. But there was nothing to be done about the fake door, and there a much greater chance he could help with what they were running _from_.

So Henry continued down and ended back in the recording studio, which now looked abandoned. There were music sheets scattered everywhere, but no sign of-

“Hiya, Henry!"

Henry whipped his head around. He had to look up to find Bendy.

The demon was perched on the balustrade of the projectionist’s booth, gazing down at Henry with a wide grin and his legs kicking playfully. Sammy stood behind him, silent.

“Bendy,” Henry greeted stiffly. He couldn’t read Sammy’s emotions, and the silence unnerved him. “You two left Sammy’s office.”

“Oh yeah,” Bendy said. “It’s a big world, creator, and I couldn’t learn all about it locked away in some office. And boy, I have learned a lot.”

Henry tried to catch Sammy’s eye, to try to convey his desperation, or demand an explanation, but Sammy avoided his gaze.

“What did you learn?” Henry tried cautiously, since the Music Director was being no help at all.

“Learned how t’kill Wally, for starters!” Bendy slapped the railing and laughed. “Wow Henry, were you right! It ain’t like the cartoons at all. It’s even better, if ya ask me. Any episode I make has gotta be a mix of the two - cartoon _and_ reality!”

It had never been more obvious that Bendy entirely lacked any regard for human life. None of this had any gravity to him. He’d ended a man’s existence, and it didn’t give him pause for even one second. That boded very badly for everyone else now trapped in the studio.

“I learned people don’t come back from the dead,” Bendy continued, listing lessons on his fingers. “That was a big shocker, lemme tell ya – though I’m working on fixin’ that. People ought'a come back, just like the cartoons do. Ohh, I learned blood is red! How come ya never told me, Henry?”

“That’s-“ Henry struggled for words, but Bendy didn’t seem to require a response, as he kept right on talking,

“Learned what copulation is, too, and then went and did it with Sammy. Which was preeetty weird if ya ask me, but really fun. Especially when his face scrunched all up and his breathing went funky and he got real moan-y.”

Sammy's calm facade was instantly torn away as he let out a strangled squeak and looked at Bendy with mortification. Henry hardly noticed since he was too busy trying to process what the hell Bendy had just said. A confounded " _what_?" fell out of his mouth. He had to have misheard.

Bendy muttered, “hey, I said that right, didn’t I? Copulation?”

Henry made a noise like a punctured accordion. “You-“ Now he looked at Sammy, trying to find some hint that what Bendy said wasn’t true, but Sammy’s cheeks were colored a deep crimson. "You're lying."

"Tch. I don't believe in lyin', creator. Anyway, why would I lie about somethin' so nice as Sammy being inside me?" 

“Sammy,” Henry said.

Sammy straightened, and tried to compose his features through his furious blush. 

“You…?” Henry started but couldn't get his mouth to shape the question. It was so... so… Something. Henry’s thoughts seemed to have train wrecked, and were stalling, jammed.

“You two are real bad at talkin,’” Bendy remarked.

Sammy cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. It was unclear if he was replying to Henry or Bendy, until he added, “It has become obvious to me that destroying Bendy is not the solution here. It’s likely impossible to begin with. We should instead embrace his existence in the studio.”

“You had sex?” Henry blurted because there had to be some misunderstanding here.

“No,” Bendy answered.

“That’s another word for it,” Sammy told the demon, and Bendy went, “oooh. Yes. We had sex.”

Not for the first time, Henry wondered if he was dreaming. If none of this was real whatsoever. He heard a laugh and realized it was his own. God. This was insanity.

“I didn’t exactly plan it-“ Sammy started.

“Hold on. Stop. Stop talking.” Henry hunched over and clutched his knees. He tried to think but his brain was like a blank white wall. He understood, to some level, Bendy doing perverted and terrible things, because that seemed to be almost all he was capable of. But _Sammy_. And that _particular_ thing. In the studio. God, was it before or after Wally was killed? Henry didn't think he wanted to know. There was a ringing in his ears, and Henry wondered how much shock he could take before his body simply shut down. 

“Why is he broken?” Henry heard Bendy whisper. Sammy muttered something indiscernible back. 

“You,” Henry tried again. “And Bendy? You both… How. _Why_?”

“Can we move on from this?” Sammy said shortly.

“Sammy, _Wally is dead_.”

“I know.”

“A man is dead,” Henry repeated, and gazed up at Sammy as if he could possibly cement this fact into the Music Director’s brain. But there wasn’t an ounce of regret in his eyes.

“How do we reset Henry?” Bendy asked, concerned. “He’s repeatin’ a whole lot.” Bendy hopped off the railing and fell to recording studio floor, where he splattered into an ink puddle. Almost immediately he popped back up again, and then approached Henry, tail swishing at his heels.

“Hey creator, are you okay?”

Instinctively Henry took several steps back, before tripping over a chair and steadying himself on a music stand. “I’m fine, I’m fine-“

He was infinitely relieved when Bendy stopped a couple feet away. “I need you in tip-top shape, Henry. So until I figure out how t’ bring people back to life, I’ve gotta make sure nothin’ bad happens to you. Sure you're okay? You're awful pale."

"I'm fine, 'mfine."

"Great to hear." Bendy snapped his fingers; Henry flinched. "Say, how about you and I go to meet the band? They're stuck at the door, just waitin' for us to say hello." Bendy smiled. "You an' Sammy can help me recruit the best a' the best to play in my episodes. And for everyone else, well... Gotta practice that unkilling somehow."


	15. Allison

Allison had not worked at Joey Drew Studios for long, but from the very start, her job had been unexpectedly and uncommonly cursed.

It started simple enough, where on the first week of work, the elevator got stuck halfway between two floors. She spent hours trapped in elevator limbo until Thomas finally managed to prise the door open (grumbling the entire time about Joey and the god-awful elevators and how this and that didn’t work).

Then, another day, Susie showed up at the studio. She apparently was not supposed to be at the studio, but she showed up anyway, and she screamed at Allison about stealing her role, stealing her character, stealing Alice Angel when _Alice’s voice belonged to her_! Susie was eventually towed out by several weary band members, but the experience left Allison feeling rattled. There was something disturbing about being screamed at by someone convinced they were the character they had once voice-acted. Susie showed up once more at the studio on a later date, and this time Joey himself came by to apologize and assure Allison it wouldn't happen again – _just keep recording that lovely Angel’s voice, don’t worry about a thing_. Right.

Then there was Joey Drew himself, whose slimy charade had nobody fooled. His presence had a way of getting under her skin, as did the Ink Machine constantly chugging away in the background – a machine she couldn't understand the purpose or meaning of, only that it gave her a general malaise by merely existing.

Allison thought she’d be fine enduring all this, because all things considered, working as a voice actor at a weird animation studio was a much better option than some other jobs available to women. And sure, she would have been fine enduring, if not for _today_.

Today took the cake for worst work day ever. Worst, most surreal, most disturbing, most _wrong_.

Allison hadn’t even begun appropriately processing what she’d seen in that hallway with Sammy, Bendy, and Wally, before she was hit by the horror there was apparently no escaping. She, and everyone else in the studio, were penned in like sheep at the mercy of that thing that had been doing… doing repulsive things with Sammy. She was still reeling from that horrible revelation when Henry vanished back down to the lower levels, leaving her with the crowd of band members that shoved her aside to open the door.

She stared at them slack-jawed and dumbfounded as they slammed into the wall, scrabbled at the knob, scratched at the seams that were painted and not real.

When it didn’t open, new people pushed to the front, _how can you be so incompetent – it’s just a door how hard can it be_ – only to realize that yes, it wasn’t going to open. That the door was **not** a door.

Bombarded by their inanity, Allison abruptly felt much too overwhelmed. She was angry at them, even though it wasn’t their fault, even if they were just victims, too. She was angry because she didn't know what to do, and their behavior only heightened the stress. “Stop, stop it!” she yelled. “The exit isn’t even _there_ anymore-“

Nobody listened; they shoved and scrambled and panicked.

“Everybody SHUT UP!” Allison shrieked.

The band members all turned wide deer-like eyes onto her.

“There’s a demon-“

“Bendy-“

“He wants to kill us all-“

“I know!” Allison clutched her arm, shaking. “I met it myself. But this –“ she jerked her chin at the fake door. “This is stupid! You’re not getting out that way!”

“Then what do we do?” one man asked.

Allison blinked stupidly at him. _She_ didn’t know what to do. She only knew about the door because she’d been here a few minutes before them. “I-I don’t know! Does anyone have a way to break through the wall?”

They looked amongst themselves in confusion.

“Come on, a hammer, crowbar, um, an axe?” Allison could barely believe what she was suggesting, but she wanted to live and that meant they needed to get _out_.

Then someone screamed. A ripple of fresh fear ran through the group, and,

“What is that!?”

“It touched my foot!”

Allison had no idea what they were talking about until she saw it. A thin black line scrawling across the floorboards, as if someone took a pen and was sketching a circle around all the band members and Allison. Everyone instinctively huddled closer, away from the line.

Then the inside of the circle was scribbled in in black.

“It’s a hole,” she uttered, dumbfounded; the band members realized it at the same time. A cartoon hole.

Just like that, it was. The floor vanished beneath Allison's feet. Her heart shot into her throat; there was a half second where she thought she wouldn't fall, and then she was plummeting through darkness. Everything was in slow motion, her hair mystically rising with the rushing air, her clothes billowing out and then –

Then she hit the floor and crumpled. Everything hurt. She lay in numb disbelief, cheek pressed up against the floorboards. _I’m not dead. I survived._ She lifted her head.

Downed band members were scattered around her, all of them looking equally shell-shocked. From one she heard, “my wrist is broken, my wrist is goddamn broken-“

Allison patted down her body. Nothing seemed broken. She’d not only survived, but emerged mostly unscathed… as most of them had, somehow.

Woozily, she got to her feet, and looked around.

This place was not part of the studio. Or it was… but she was certain it hadn’t existed before. A horseshoe-shaped auditorium yawned around her, with tiers of balconies and seats along the curve of the horseshoe, and a wide stage poised at the front. All if it was constructed of wood and colored in a muted yellowish light, making the room seem… not quite real. Sketched. Cartoonish.

She didn’t have time to dwell before there was a distant click, and lights bathed the stage, illuminating the individual upon it.

Bendy stood in the center, ringed by a half circle of chairs, music stands, and instruments. With a start, Allison realized that the stage was the recording studio, simply transported to a new location.

Bendy bowed low, straightened, and beamed at the crowd. His voice was projected eerily, as if speaking through a microphone, though she saw none. “Heeello and welcome every-“

His words were interrupted by a human shape that fell from the rafters above the stage. _Thud_ , it hit the stage not far from Bendy. That shape was Sammy Lawrence, and he groaned and curled in a ball upon landing.

Bendy jumped and turned. “Oh, whoops. I transported you but not the projectionist booth, huh? My bad.”

Sammy whimpered.

“Well, the important part is ya didn’t die. Be grateful, Sammy.”

Sammy murmured something that Allison couldn't quite catch; whatever it was, it seemed to satisfy the demon, who turned back to the ‘audience’ with a wrongly static expression.

A few band members bolted and started hunting along the far walls for a door or a means of escape. Allison knew better than to do the same, but it chilled her to see Bendy’s head follow those that had chosen to run, like a predator watching prey scatter. Picking which to chase.

“Come on, you guys,” he sing-songed. “You really think I’d let ya escape? No siree. See, every cartoon’s gotta have music. Sammy here can write it, an’ now I need people to play it.” He clapped his hands together. “I’m sure Joey had an all-right band already, but I don’t trust his judgment, so I’m gonna have all of ya play for me to prove your salt. Anyone who doesn’t meet the mark goes bye-bye. Who wants to go first?”

He… he wanted to create new episodes? It was such a childishly simple goal. But the methods he was proposing to go about it… For a moment Allison wondered if Bendy didn’t even know the horribleness of what he was doing. But one look at his soulless black eyes and his grin, and there was no doubt. He knew, and he relished it.

Someone had to stop him. Before Allison could think of how, someone beat her to it.

That someone was Henry. Allison hadn’t noticed him up on the stage at first, because he was slumped near the back. But Henry suddenly moved, approaching Bendy and using the chairs to help support him. He was pale as a sheet, and it scared Allison how poorly composed he appeared, especially when he had been reassuringly calm not even an hour prior.

“Bendy, you need to stop,” Henry uttered pleadingly. “Please stop. Don’t kill anyone else.”

Bendy turned. “Why not?”

Henry hesitated for long enough that Allison wondered if he was going to answer at all. Then, softly, “because Bendy wouldn't do this.”

Allison didn’t understand at first. Of course Bendy would do this – he was doing it now –

And yet… Icy tension snaked through the room. Allison could feel it, like something had gone and stolen the air from her lungs. Whatever Henry had said, Bendy did not like it. And yet he still continued, breathy and terrified,

“Bendy looks out for his friends. For other people. He would never hurt someone. Not on purpose. Ever.”

There was a heavy silence. It was eerie watching the two of them, like seeing some morbid play unfold. One much too real. Even the band members had gone deathly silent.

“Henry,” Bendy said. His tone gave away that he was smiling, but he didn’t sound happy. “We talked about this. You got some of Bendy’s traits wrong.”

Henry’s face was ashen, particularly so while washed out in the stage lights. “I didn’t. Bendy is my character. I made up how he looks and behaves. So I know how he’s supposed to be. What you are? That’s something very different.”

Bendy’s tail lashed. His voice was quieter, “you’re really pushing it, Henry.”

At first Allison thought it was the gleam of the lights playing tricks on her, but it couldn't be – Bendy seemed to be… melting? Ink dripped from his body, ran in rivulets down his gloves, and plinked onto the stage.

Henry took a shaky step back, nudging aside a chair with an unpleasant scrape over the floor. “I’m telling the truth.”

He was baiting Bendy. Deliberately trying to turn the demon’s attention onto himself. Oh my God, why was Henry so clever but so stupid?

Bendy started walking toward Henry. He said things low and quiet, things that didn’t carry across the auditorium. Allison couldn't pick up on the words, but it had Henry skittering back again, running into music stands and tripping over chairs.

Allison looked frantically at the other band members, some who were watching, and others who were hitting the back walls as if trying to claw their way to escape. Wasn’t someone going to do something? Her gaze flew to Sammy, who was nearest – but she knew to expect nothing from him. He watched the scene with open, unabashed awe. Disgusted, Allison tore her eyes away.

Somebody had to do something: she was certain Bendy was going to hurt Henry. Her mind rewound back to Wally, or the body that had once been Wally, and a wave of light-headedness swooped over her. Bendy would do that again.

There was a crash, a yelp from the stage. Henry. He was sitting, legs akimbo, beside an overturned chair, while Bendy leaned up close to his face, and his gloved hands reached out-

“Stop stop stop!” Allison bolted for the stage before she had a chance to think about it.

She ran up the steps and winded, halted before Bendy.

His hands dropped away from Henry’s face. “Who are you?” he snapped.

“A-Allison.” What was she doing , what was she doing, oh god what was she doing.

She had never been this close to Bendy before, and it was a whole different experience seeing his beetle black eyes up close, with the coldness of his presence burrowing into her bones. “Aaaand?” he said, with the tone of someone at the edge of their patience.

She didn’t think Bendy was going to care for what was right or wrong, or what she wanted him to do or not. But she suspected she knew what he would care about.

“Um.” Allison smoothed her dress. “You said you were um, recruiting, right? For episodes. Well. I’m the voice actor for Alice Angel. So it’s only fitting I’d be the Alice. To your Bendy.”

Bendy released Henry almost immediately in favor of turning to her. Despite his cartoonish face, Allison felt as if something very powerful, very immense, and very malevolent were gazing back at her. She had his full attention now.

“What are you doing?” Henry hissed at her.

“To my Bendy,” Bendy said.

“Yes.”

He smacked his face with a gloved hand and broke out laughing.

That was… not the reaction Allison had expected. She and Henry stared while he completely lost it. Should she back away? Should she do something?

Finally, wiping away nonexistent tears, Bendy grinned up at her. “You’re tryin’ to save Henry. Do ya think I’m stupid?”

Ah. “No. No, not at all, I just-“

“Look, you got nothin’ to worry about. Henry here is a little confused-“ Bendy stepped closer and grabbed Henry’s chin while the animator hyperventilated. “But I’m not gonna kill him until I know for sure I can bring him back. He is my creator, y‘know.”

Bendy, who apparently lacked any grasp of normal human affection, proceeded to pet his free hand down Henry’s face repeatedly.

“Um,” Allison said.

“As for me bein’ Bendy, even if ya said it just to make me happy…” Bendy made a soft noise. His fingers dragged down to Henry’s throat. “Well, I appreciate it. ‘Least someone around here’s got some sense.”

Someone shifted across the stage. “My Lord? I-”

“Shut up, Sammy.”

Bendy was looking at his fingers wrapped around Henry’s neck with a little too much interest, and Allison cleared her throat. “So, can I be Alice?”

“Oh!” he let go of Henry. “Well, maybe. Gimme a line from Alice. Show me watcha got.”

Right. It was just like in the recording booth. Except… nothing at all like that, and a hundred times more terrifying. But Allison took a deep, steadying breath, got into the right headspace, and recited a line from the recording session she was supposed to do today.

Bendy tilted his head to the side. “That don’t sound like Alice.”

Oh. Of course. If Bendy was versed in his cartoons, then he would have only heard Susie Campbell’s voice for Alice. None of the episodes with Allison’s voice had been released yet. “Th-the original voice actor was replaced,” she stumbled to explain. “I’m the new Alice. The old one isn’t at the studio anymore-“

“It’s true,” Henry hoarsely corroborated.

“Ain’t at the studio? Where’s she at?” Bendy asked.

“Gone,” Henry said; “Not here,” Allison said.

Bendy huffed. “Well, fine. Until I get the original Alice Angel, I guess you’ll do. Congrats and welcome to the team!” He grabbed her hand and shook it vigorously. Allison wished she never had the misfortune of touching him. He wasn't natural. Was cold and monstrous.

She was grateful when he let go in favor of wandering towards Sammy.

And oh, Sammy’s expression was something that turned Allison’s stomach. There was something really wrong with him. She’d always known he was strange but...

"My Lord," he murmured reverentially. "You have an Alice now...." Sammy met her regard coldly, as if he saw her as nothing more than a prop. As if he saw her the way Bendy did. But only yesterday, he'd been in the recording booth with her. Impatient and short-tempered, maybe, but walking her through the measures of the new song he had written. He'd been  _human._ A thought crossed her mind. One that made his actions less vile. Perhaps he didn't have complete control over his own actions or emotions. Perhaps Bendy was pulling strings in his head. 

"I sure do," Bendy said. He squeezed just above Sammy's knee. "Now I need some musicians, but it looks like they scattered. You'll grab me one, won't'cha?"

The band members had indeed scattered to the far wall of the auditorium, hopelessly hunting for a way out. 

"Sammy, _don't_ ," Allison said weakly. As if there was any reasoning with him. His thin lips curved into a half smile. 

"Anything you desire, Bendy." And then he hopped off the stage. 

Allison pressed her fingers to her lips and tried to breathe. She had never felt so helpless. Entirely lacking control over the situation. Nothing they said or did could stop him. "Why not keep the entire band?" she tried anyway. She had to try, no matter how futile.

"Shut up, Alice."

She almost fought him on that. But what was the point? She'd seen what he'd done to Wally.... 

Trembling, Allison knelt beside Henry. “What can we do?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Henry, we have to do something.”

“I don’t know."

A short cry burst from the stands. Sammy had picked a musician. James - one of the smallest, and youngest. It was a brief, pathetic fight before Sammy was towing the struggling man back to the stage. 

"Someone help him," Allison whispered, in a voice that would never carry to the other band members. They made no effort to interfere, most keeping a wide berth. How could they sit by and watch? But then... Allison wasn't sure she was doing any better. But it wasn't as if she could stop Sammy. As if she could stop Bendy. And perhaps that was the crux of it. Everyone felt helpless. Even Henry was no longer fighting, just watching with glassy eyes as Sammy struggled to drag James onto the stage.

“Say, what instrument do ya play?” Bendy asked, as Sammy wrestled him into a chair.

"Please don't kill me, please don't kill me," James pleaded.

"He plays the bass fiddle," Sammy replied.

"Okey-dokey." Bendy grabbed a violin. 

"No, with respect my Lord, the bass fiddle is that instrument."

"He's awful little for such a big instrument," Bendy chuckled, dropping the violin.

"Please," James whimpered. "Please please, I don't want to die."

"Well then I sure hope you can play a mean fiddle," Bendy replied cheerily. "Now fiddle me this-“ and he whistled a tune Allison recognized from the episodes, though he whistled it slightly off key, with a few notes missing. His memory for the song was clearly imperfect, or his ability to play it poor. Allison wasn’t sure how that was going to reflect on this terrified man’s audition, but her heart was pounding and her mind whirring. How to kill - or even delay or distract - an ink demon.... If she hit him hard enough with a music stand? But if that didn't work, if it just pissed him off...

"Give the man an instrument, Sammy!" While Sammy fetched the bass fiddle, Bendy patted James' thigh. "Don't ya worry for one second, buddy. If you play nicely, I ain't gonna hurt ya, got it?" His fingers crept up higher and Allison looked away. 

He really was a demon. Something from hell itself. James made a noise like a trampled squirrel. 

When Allison dared to look again, the poor man finally had some space, but he was clutching his favored instrument like he'd never touched it before in his life. 

"Yeesh, you are not good at this." Bendy remarked.

"N-no, I can play - I'm sorry, I -" Shaking fingers took to the strings. Sammy counted off, and then James began to play. It was an inappropriately bouncy tune for the tension of the moment, and Allison held her breath, certain that in his terror he would mess up, and then... and then...

But he didn't. The notes came out smoothly, the song clear and with its usual spring. 

Allison exhaled in relief, and so did James, who laughed and flitted his eyes between Sammy and Bendy. "I - I passed, right-?"

"Darn, I wanted to kill ya," Bendy snapped his fingers. "But yup, welcome to the band! ... Again. Sammy, next!" 

Without hesitation Sammy jumped off the stage to get another musician, and that's when Bendy abruptly yelped, "wait wait wait!" Sammy froze.

"Shh-shh!" Bendy held up a hand.

Whatever he heard or sensed, Allison couldn't. And neither could anyone else, it seemed.

But he came to some conclusion about it, and laughed bizarrely. "Fancy that. Joey Drew wants to join the party."

What?

Bendy turned to the back of the stage, what had once been the back wall of the recording studio. Under his will, by magics Allison did not comprehend, the wooden boards of the wall melted away into black sludge, as if they had never been anything but ink all along. Their absence revealed a network of black pipes wound around each other. Pipes from the Ink Machine. Many many of them. More than she thought was needed, especially in one section of the wall. These did not melt, but rather shifted and rearranged until a passageway was opened.

Allison blinked in shock at the person standing on the other side.

“Hiya Joey,” Bendy greeted. “Watcha got there?”

“Right here? I’ve got a water hose, Bendy.” Joey awkwardly hobbled in, and he was indeed carrying a water hose. A kink in the hose firmly tucked under one arm, and the nozzle clutched in his free hand. The nozzle dribbled across the floor as Joey stepped nearer in a three beat gait.

“A water hose?” Bendy snorted. “What, are ya gonna try to spray me with water? C’mon, Joey, you know I’ll just reform.”

Joey leaned heavily on his cane to adjust the nozzle with both hands. He pointed it at Bendy.

Bendy tilted his head to the side. “This is just gonna be a re-“

Then Joey released the bend in the hose. Water sprayed, and then so did ink – Bendy made an almost comical yelp and threw up his arms as if to block the stream, but his body was melting much faster than he could keep up with. Allison’s jaw dropped as she watched ink splatter across the stage and swirl in puddles of water until there was nothing at all left of the demon, just black streaked across the floorboards. Had Joey just _killed_ him?

But Joey kept the hose trained on full blast at the inky puddles. Allison soon saw why. Tiny black arms with spidery fingers were emerging from the diluted liquid, reaching up and grasping at air, or slumping over and trying to crawl away. Each time a new one appeared, Joey redirected the hose at it and sprayed it till its demise. Yet new ones were growing left and right. 

“Get out of here,” Joey roared, at everybody and at nobody in particular, his blue eyes flashing, “do you want to live or not? Out out out!”

That was enough to galvanize the band members, who went flying up the stage steps and bolting past Joey for the exit. It was not enough to galvanize Henry, apparently, who was staring mutely at the numerous tiny arms sprouting across the stage.

“Henry, move!”

Allison smacked his shoulder hard – finally the animator jolted, and the two of them fled together.


	16. Henry

Henry had reached a limit.

He thought he reached a limit a while back: first upon staying up the entire night to keep Bendy from harming anyone. Then upon finding Joey drinking when he was supposed to be researching, meaning that entire staying-up-all-night-panicked wreck was pointless.

But now Henry was beginning to understand these were only the first blows of several, and each successive one dragged him deeper and deeper into despair. Learning about Wally, learning about Sammy - this was a nightmare that only got worse, and there was no waking up from it.

He was sprawled on the stage, Bendy’s cold hands cradling his face, when his conviction of hopelessness reached its peak. He was only a person. Only mortal. And Bendy – Bendy was something else; something that wasn’t supposed to exist but did. He would see the destruction of every one of them. In good time, at his own pace. But that was how this story would end - with death.

Then Allison distracted the demon; Henry went limp, barely holding himself up by the overturned chairs. Part of him… a selfish part deep down… was relieved that Bendy’s attention was no longer on him. He felt sick for thinking that, but couldn't drag himself from his paralysis to stop Allison, or to stop Sammy when he hauled one of the musicians up on the stage. He didn't do a thing to stop the events from unfolding.

It was a sheer miracle that Joey then entered, and Bendy was reduced to nothing more than puddles across the stage, but even those puddles grew grasping hands that proved the demon was not destroyed, only delayed - which was all Henry had ever been able to accomplish. Henry imagined those hands turning into something even more monstrous, crawling along the floor or walls, soaking into the walls, spreading through the studio like a virus -

Allison hit him, screamed at him, and he snapped from his paralysis.

Things were then starkly simple. Run or die. This was the primal fear that any prey animal knew. Regardless of his despair, he wanted to live, for however long he could, so he careened after Allison.

He was nearly out of the room when he heard a dull organic thud and the crunching of glass: when he swung his gaze back, he glimpsed Joey, clutching his bleeding face and broken glasses, staggering away from the tall furious shape of Sammy Lawrence.

“Henry!” Allison shrieked, but he twisted out of her grip and lunged for Joey without thinking.

Joey’s cane was lost and his glasses ruined, but Henry looped Joey’s arm over his shoulder and half towed the man from the room, while Joey spluttered blood into his palm and whimpered. Sammy, blessedly, didn’t follow.

“Hurry,” Allison urged, looking behind them, and Henry didn’t want to know what she saw. He could only run so fast with half of Joey’s weight on him, but he did his best, feet tangling and steps faltering.

Despite Bendy’s form being so crippled, Henry couldn't help thinking that the demon was just on their heels. That they couldn't run fast enough to escape him. And on some level, he knew that was true. Joey hadn’t killed the monster, and so it would still relentlessly pursue them... Sooner or later, it would catch up. Whenever it most felt like it.

They weren’t safe anywhere in the studio.

“I-I lost a tooth,” Joey mumbled in disbelief.

“You’ll be lucky if you don’t lose your life,” Allison yelped, “Where do we go?”

“Um-“ Joey, hobbling along with Henry’s help, seemed immensely distracted and disturbed by the blood on his hand. “The exits don’t work,” he finally said.

“I know-“

“Right-“ Joey seemed to gather his thoughts together, and his next words were bolstered with more confidence, “safety in numbers – grab everyone else! We’ll go deeper into the studio. Somewhere he might not find us! Before he catches up!”

“How long until-“ Allison started, and Joey waved at her frantically.

“Just get the others!”

Allison bolted from his side, yelling for the other band members, while Joey gripped Henry’s shoulder tighter and leaned in, “Henry, I knew you’d save me. You always come through.”

“Let’s just keep moving. And... thanks for saving us, too.”

So far nothing was at their heels, but all Henry could think about was the pipes in the walls. He’d already seen Bendy enter the machine once – if he did again… couldn't he go anywhere? Catch up with them in a heartbeat?

Allison returned with the stragglers she managed to grab; altogether, they flew down the stairs, and Henry followed their manic descent – not because any place would be safe from Bendy, but because running at least gave the illusion of getting further away from him.

They swung around a corner, and there was a yelp, a crash – someone had run into Thomas.

“The hell’s going on here?” the mechanic glimpsed Joey and, “the hell’s happened to y-“

“Just run,” Henry replied, as Allison said, “we can explain later, run!”

“Run?” he grunted – but the others were already skirting around him, and Thomas ground out his cigarette and trotted after them. “Is this some kinda joke?” he yelled.

They ultimately bolted into an offshoot room from the main Heavenly Toys area - the room was barely large enough for Joey, Henry, Thomas, Allison, and the three band members who came with them, who immediately launched into demanding answers.

“Everything is under control!” Joey shoved off Henry and leaned against the wall, swiping a thick pen from his pocket to begin scrawling symbols onto the door. “Look, you see these? These runes will keep him out. Warding against demons!”

Looking at the lines on the door, Henry couldn't possibly believe that such a thing would keep the demon out. It must have been something Joey picked up in his books, but Henry had no faith in its ability to protect them. Joey's statement created an uproar, though, of people demanding to know what Bendy  _was_ \- Thomas just wanted to know what was going on.

Thankfully, if there was one thing Joey could do, it was talk. Henry retreated to the far corner, pacing and rubbing his temples. Just trying to breathe, while Joey fielded everyone’s panic.

Joey somehow managed to explain things without getting mutinied and mauled by the traumatized band members. He even put the attempted creation of a cartoon character in as positive and sympathetic light as one could, while framing Bendy’s twisted personality as an unforeseen consequence just as devastating to Joey as anyone else. He was right, on some level – he had to deal with it now just like everybody, and Henry knew Joey wouldn't plan something like this. But he did have a way of making himself sound helplessly victimized by the situation. As if he were not responsible for it.

Knowing Joey, he probably didn’t even feel responsible. Nothing was ever Joey’s fault. And he never wanted to face the consequences of his actions. Just pawned them off so someone else could deal with them. He’d done it a dozen times, but Henry’s patience for it now was gone.

This was Joey’s fault. Whether or not he intended the exact results, he’d been messing in things he shouldn’t have. And based on all his hedging and soothing, he didn’t have any permanent solution. If he knew how to kill Bendy, that’s what he would have led with.

Henry groaned, covering his face. Even down here, several floors away from Bendy was supposed to be, he didn’t feel safe. The Ink Machine’s persistent throbbing pounded in his skull, a low but eternal noise. Worse, he kept noticing the cloying stench of ink with a greater and greater frequency. It was a bad omen. Made him think about the entire studio flooded and swollen with ink, and Bendy’s laughing grin taunting him.

“Henry!”

 _Shit_. Henry jerked, a sharp gasp ripped from his throat – but no.

It was Joey, not Bendy.

“I can’t believe it,” Joey said, touching his swollen lip. His glasses were now little more than empty rings of metal. “Sammy Lawrence, my own employee.”

“He always hated you,” replied Henry dully. Sammy hadn’t seemed to like anyone that much.

“Tch, he was always arrogant. As if anyone should know better than the man behind it all, what music ought to go in the cartoon.”

“This isn’t really the time for that.”

“You’re right, of course. This is time for planning to destroy Bendy. I assume you heard what I told the others?”

“Uh…” Truthfully, Henry had tuned him out.

Joey shook his head. “You always did like to space out, Henry, but you'd think for something like this you could pay attention!”

“Joey, Wally’s dead," Henry blurted. 

"Ah." Joey's eyes flicked away. "I saw things got out of control while I was gone but - wasn't it your job to make sure Bendy didn't hurt anyone? Weren’t you looking after him?”

Henry winced. Sleeping. He’d been sleeping while Wally was murdered.

“Henry, don’t tell me you left Bendy alone?”

“No! No, I gave him to Sammy. I thought he’d be fine for just a few hours….” Guilt churned in his stomach. If he had just stayed up… Bendy had been overwhelming, on the verge of unmanageable before all this, but he had at least _listened_ to Henry. He had cooperated, more or less. Now Bendy wasn’t listening to him at all, and everything had fallen apart…

Joey shook his head. “Well, that’s plain awful, what’s happened to poor Wally. Sammy was always a strange one, Henry… and now it seems he’s allied himself with Bendy, hasn’t he?”

Allied. That was one way of putting it. Henry felt sick and guilty and awful, and he abruptly wanted this conversation to be over.

“Perhaps we can use that,” Joey continued when Henry didn’t reply. “If Bendy is attached to him….”

“Stop. Whatever storybook thing you’re thinking isn’t going to work. Bendy would kill Sammy just as readily as anybody else.”

“Hmm, well, it’s something to keep in mind at the very least.” Joey clapped his shoulder. “At any rate, I got something out of those dusty books after all. A banishing ritual. It’s very simple in execution, Henry – we need only to trace the banishing circle on the floor, and get five people to stand about and chant a simple phrase.”

“But you don’t know for sure if it will work?”

Joey laughed shortly. “It’s not like there’s a step by step guide on this. We’re in unprecedented territory here. But if I were to put my money on any solution… Well, I would have done it myself in my office if I could, but as I said, we need five participants…”

“Okay.” He didn’t see how this method could possibly destroy Bendy, but it was the only method they got. "Let's get started."


	17. Sammy

Sammy had never held Joey in high regard: he’d learned swiftly in his employment that Joey was a man who took credit for everyone else’s work but did little himself. He presumably had some talent in animation, but Sammy never saw that nor any other talents beyond a tongue skillful at bullshit. That sort of fraudulent personality hardly inspired respect – not to mention Sammy knew Joey complained about his music behind his back, even right on the heels of complimenting it (but what did he know about the art)!

Well, needless to say, when Joey hobbled onto the stage, Sammy had to be honest with himself that if Bendy must kill anyone… if killing truly was inevitable… then Sammy would most like it to be Joey. He almost wanted to say something that would make this moment even more apropos: something to dig a knife into Joey’s guts before the demon finished him off… A final scathing insult as the last thing Joey hears. Yes, that was only fitting.

But the words were barely gathered on his tongue when the water hit Bendy full blast. Sammy immediately forgot whatever he was going to say as the demon’s form rapidly dissolved into nothing but puddles across the floor. Sammy was astonished, blindsided at the absurd notion that Joey could even hurt a creature so otherworldly. But - what if Bendy needed help?

That thought was all it took for Sammy to cross the stage in a sprint, and his fist collided with Joey’s face. The action surprised him as much as Joey – Sammy hadn’t debased himself in any physical brawl, not since he was a small boy, but a second punch broke Joey’s glasses, and a third would have followed if the studio owner wasn’t grabbed by Henry and towed out.

Sammy seethed, feeling an undeniable furl of pleasure at punching the man who he felt most deserved it, not only for what he had done to Bendy, but for his past treatment-

Bendy. _Bendy_ \- forgetting his vengeance, Sammy spun around. The stage was covered in a veritable pool of liquid now. Sammy’s heart was in his throat as he gazed at the mess. He hardly dared to breathe, and he was ashamed for having been so selfish as to think for even a moment on Joey’s past transgressions rather than the welfare of the demon that had so utterly changed his life. If he had acted just a touch sooner, if he had stopped Joey rather than standing around uselessly…

Sammy staggered nearer. “Bendy? You aren’t-?” it seemed ridiculous, speaking to the ink like this, but Sammy had seen the little arms sprouting up… They weren’t anymore, but surely Bendy still had some consciousness left?

Then, when Sammy was a half stride away from the substance, it heaved and rippled over the floor, like the surface of the ocean disturbed by something lurching just below. Sammy skittered back.

“Bendy? My Lord?”

A massive shape whipped out of the ink and towered above Sammy’s head: an arch of pitch black, with ridges marching along the top – it was a spine, Sammy realized: the sight of it stole his breath because it was bony and immense and nothing like the small form he knew. He trembled to imagine the body it must belong to.

There had always been something sinister and especially demonic behind Bendy’s tiny and innocent shape. Sammy had learned to fear the form of Bendy’s with which he was most familiar, but now he began to anticipate and dread the sight of something else.

But he did not get the chance to see any _something else_. The spine crumpled, collapsed back down with a splash that left spatters across Sammy’s shirt and face. Ink boiled. A long tail rose ominously next, dripping and serpentine. It lashed furiously, but ink sloughed of it in huge chunks until it too was gone.

The ink and water were too mixed. Bendy was struggling to reform. Struggling to separate one liquid from the next.

Huge claws formed and scoured through the ink, left deep lines in the floorboards… but the claws dissolved away just like the tail and spine. Soon there was nothing but bubbling, twitching puddles.

Sammy trembled, unsure what to do or how to help. Only that Bendy was still very much alive, and he had to do _something_. Had to show Bendy that he was still loyal. It was a terrifying sensation, abruptly – everyone else knowing now that he was aligned with Bendy, which had been invigoratingly wicked while Bendy had the run of the place, and now felt horribly isolating. If Bendy didn’t come back… if he was killed…

That left Sammy with a dead body and an entire studio of people arrayed against him. That left Sammy with no life at all. Nothing but stark reality and a penal system that would not be kind to him. He needed Bendy – not just in the sense of his newfound crippling desire for the demon, or his consuming awe and veneration, but also in the sense that without him, Sammy didn’t have anywhere to go but court.

Then, like a physical blow, Sammy thought,  _my masterpiece-_  His magnum opus, the symphony that one day was to impress and inspire people across the country, or across the world, if he dared dream it (and oh he had dreamed it). But that future… that was impossible now, wasn’t it?

Sammy clutched his arm, and under the searing pain of Bendy’s bites, he remembered the sting of carving in dozens, no, hundreds, of little notes. Years of effort. Years of hope. He thought about the grand orchestra he had seen, wrapped up in a magnificent work of art and sound. If there was any small chance he could still have that future…

Sammy swallowed hard. He glanced to the exit. If he followed his coworkers now… could they forgive him? Could he escape the consequences of the law? And, in time… become a composer renowned and beloved?

He… he could say that Bendy got into his head, made him say and feel things Sammy otherwise wouldn't. He didn’t think that was far from the truth: the demon had made him feel things he’d never felt before... such intense, deliciously fascinating things. This whole time Sammy had been nearly possessed with it, and even being in the vicinity of Bendy, despite his ruined form, Sammy felt that undeniable tug to him. An obsession, almost, for a thing so wicked and unnatural. Bendy was intoxicating. Addicting.

Sammy hesitated.

The liquid on the stage churned.

His heart thudded.

What use was the approval of mere people? He could play his masterpiece before a billion people, but who were they beside Bendy? People had only ever irritated him, but this demon, he was far greater than any of them.

Still the doubts persisted.

Dozens of tiny spidery black hands bloomed from the ink nearest him. Their little fingers grasped through the air piteously, as if reaching for help.

Sammy forcefully shoved away the thoughts about his ambition and his masterpiece. He needed to assist Bendy, however he could. Nothing else was so important right now. Unsure if this was the right answer, Sammy knelt and extended his hand to one of the grasping inky ones.

Its minuscule fingers clung to the pad of his pointer finger. When he drew his hand back, it stuck to him, a tiny blob of quivering ink, and ripped away from the rest of the liquid mass. Sammy gazed in wonder at it, looking so fragile, little more than a dot.

More hands were reaching. This was it, perhaps. Extracting the ink little by little. Maybe these tiny drops were all Bendy could keep together against the water that was trying to tear him away.

Sammy trembled in his hurry to reach out again, and gently lay his entire hand over the surface. Many little hands all grasped at once, and all were pulled away clinging to his skin, until he had little black clumps all over his skin. But there was still so so much ink in the water.

More. He had to get more.

Sammy dove straight to the task – at first he delicately avoided stepping in the patches of ink, afraid to cause some offense, but then the hands started reaching for his boots, and he stepped in to allow them to crawl up his legs. They grasped his pants and inched up and up, all the way to his inner thighs.

Sammy shivered, a small noise emerging from his throat. He needed to focus.

Several minutes later, and he’d acquired a thick goopy layer of ink, which was shockingly heavy, all over his body. The water coating the floor was by this time mostly clean, and no more inky hands were reaching from it. Sammy trudged away from the drenched stage, and into the audience seating where there was no water contamination.

Long skeletal strands of ink reached out and clung to a nearby chair; many many of them, like a spider web, and through these connections all the ink siphoned off Sammy and onto the chair.

Sammy held his breath.

The ink bubbled up, forming first Bendy’s general shape, but all blank and pitch-colored. Only then did the lighter colors bleed into existence: his bowtie, his gloves, his face. At first his expression looked fake. Flat like in the cartoons. Then he laughed and there was dimension to his mouth, and motion, reality.

“Wow, that was weird!”

“My Lord, are you all right…?” Sammy murmured. He certainly appeared to be, looking absolutely unchanged. Identical to how he had been before.

“Oh, sure. But I need to get better about that dissolving, Sammy-o. Should’a seen me splat when Wally whacked me with that wrench of his.” Bendy studied his hands thoughtfully. “I don’t mind the delay all too much, but I really gotta get better at keepin’ myself together. Can’t go fallin’ apart and oozin’ across the floor at every touch o’ water now, can I?”

Sammy wasn’t sure how to respond. It was terrifying enough that such a thing did no lasting damage to Bendy, and yet Bendy didn’t seem satisfied with that alone.

Bendy waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, whatever. I’ll work on it. Hey, thanks for helpin’ me out, but what took ya so long, Sammy? You were standing around like a dummy while I was just a big puddle.”

Then Bendy’s attention was wholly on him. He didn’t look genuinely upset, but Sammy went cold. “Forgive me, my God… I – I was weak.”

Bendy tilted his head to the side and surveyed Sammy quietly. Finally, “You were thinkin’ about leavin,’ huh?”

Sammy glanced away, humiliated that he was so easily read, and terrified about how Bendy might punish him for his failings. “I was misguided. I won’t doubt you again-”

“Tch-ch.” Bendy waggled his finger. “Don’t make promises ya can’t keep, Sammy. You’re human, and humans make mistakes. I mean, look at Henry! He’s pretty much the best outta them all, and even he mixed up somethin' as important as Bendy’s characterization! That tells me a thing or two about people.”

The best out of them all. Sammy tried not to take that too hard, and failed.

“So maybe y’aren’t as committed and worshipful as I was hoping-“

“My Lord, please-“

“But I think you and I have got a good thing goin’, Sammy Lawrence, s’long as you don’t go getting misled. So tell ya what – I’ll round up the others, and you think about whether you wanna be a willing plaything, or an unwilling one, all right?”

That sounded like a threat, but Sammy could tell it was not intended as one. Bendy meant it as if Sammy had a simple choice to make between two perfectly reasonable options.

Sammy wanted to profess his faith to prove he was not as fickle as Bendy was suggesting… but he sensed mere words would not persuade the demon. No, he had to do something more…. To prove to Bendy – and himself – that his loyalty would not waver.

“Yes, Bendy,” he murmured, bowing his head.


	18. Henry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags.

Joey was yet again the picture of self-assurance, limping about and flapping his hands as he arranged everyone where they should stand, making final adjustments to the elaborate circle he had drawn onto the floor, and spouting optimistic lines that were encouraging only because frightened people are very convincible.

It was a trademark of Joey that he behaved most confidently when he was least certain of what he was doing. _Confidence inspires cooperation_ , Joey had said once. People follow the man who _looks_ like he knows what he’s doing, whether or not he truly knows.

While true, Henry didn’t find this information particularly encouraging at the moment. It meant Joey was just as panicked as everyone else, and his research had yielded no definite results. The only idea he had was this strange, Satanic looking circle that was supposed to banish Bendy. Henry didn’t have much (read: any) trust in this working, but he allowed Joey to shuffle him to his own place on the circle beside Thomas. Poor Thomas wore a befuddled dog-like expression like he couldn't quite make sense of the way his day had gone. Henry painfully related to the feeling. It was hard to believe things could have so quickly gone bad.

Allison was placed on Henry’s other side. She shot him a nervous smile. “We’ll get through this.”

He envied her faith, but assumed most of it came from not having had as many encounters with Bendy as Henry had. Then again, she _had_  seen Wally... Henry quickly turned his mind away from thinking about that any longer. Dwelling on it only made him feel guilty.

Band members were nudged in to complete the circle. “Yes, there,” Joey clapped his hands together. “This is exactly how it ought to go.”

“Oo, what are we doin’?” came a voice that absolutely did not belong in the room. Henry heard it before he saw him. Then he felt his presence, malevolent and thick, oozing from the walls and floors. Bendy was back.

He stood in the center of the circle, having materialized from ink bubbling through the floorboards, looking relaxed as can be. He was the only relaxed individual in the room, as all around Henry, people were screaming things, moving, a door slammed – Henry barely noticed any of that. The second Bendy had spoken, all other sounds cut out into a white ringing in his ears. And as soon as he appeared, Henry could look at nothing else. There was no describing the dread, but Henry wasn't surprised. Not in the least. He knew it was only a matter of time, and that some fancy symbol on the door wasn't going to keep the demon out.

Bendy surveyed the room, frowning. “Gee, none of y’all look happy to see me. Not exactly a warm welcome.” 

Through the murky haze of background noise, someone was yelling at Joey to read the incantation.

Henry didn’t know where Joey was. Didn’t know anything except Bendy’s unnatural grin. Then strange harsh syllables broke through the haze. Bendy turned his attention away.

“ _Oh_!” he exclaimed, “this is the part where you banish the demon, right? Gosh, what a way to put a guy on the spot, hold on-“

Bendy adjusted his bowtie, and made a noise like clearing his throat. Then, “Three…. Two…. Arghh! Noo, don’t kill me, Joey! I’m the face of the studio, the one and only Bendy! Don’t do this!” In a paroxysmal fit, Bendy started tearing at his own body, long strings of ink coming away with his fingertips, “I’ll never survive this ritual…my one weakness! _Words_!” A snort of a laugh made it through before Bendy arranged his face into an expression of agony. “Ow, so much pain! Burnin’ and stingin’ and all other ways that pain works!”

He clearly had no idea how pain ‘worked’ at all. Henry wanted to run, but he was paralyzed. It wouldn't do a single thing anyway, he was sure of it.

Bendy’s entire body was beginning to melt as Joey read on, and the dramatics continued until Bendy threw the back of his palm against his forehead and cried, “You got me, Joey Drew, but – if I’m gonna go, I’m takin’ your best animator with me! Take that!”

There wasn’t enough warning before ink wrapped around his ankle. It yanked. _Down_. The floorboards caved like putty, then everything was black and wet and cold, soaking his shirt and pants, caressing his skin, smothering him.

He hit something hard and crumpled; the ink retreated, and he coughed out flecks of the horrible-tasting stuff.

He was in a new room. Alone.

“So, how was my acting?” Bendy asked cheerfully.

Not completely alone, then. Wiping ink from his face, Henry looked around. The room had no doors, no windows, nothing. No escape - as if the demon would have allowed it anyway.

Bendy took his silence as cue, and said, “That bad? Yowch.”

Shaking, Henry turned to face him. The demon was standing placidly in the center of the room, smiling away. "Did you hurt the others?"

"Not yet."

Yet.

"I wanted some alone time with my favorite animator first," Bendy explained. "Had to give ya a bit of a talking-to. See, what were you doin’ hangin’ around with Joey? Come on, Henry, I thought you and I knew better about that now. Don’t you remember gettin’ all angry at him in his office? Joey – he’s nothin’! Ain’t got half the brain you do.”

“Please don’t,” Henry whimpered. God, he could feel the thumping of the machine through the walls. Bendy was everywhere. Everything. Inescapable.

“Don’t _what_?”

“I don’t know. Please leave me alone. And - and everyone else, too.” 

Bendy made an irritated noise. “Henry, let’s stay on topic. And the topic is you keepin’ away from Joey. You gotta know the guy’s a scam, right? But you – you’re a genius!”

“What can I do to make you stop?” Henry begged softly.

"Henry, you are incredibly bad at keepin' on the subject," Bendy noted. Then he tapped below his mouth thoughtfully. "But I guess while you’re offerin’ things… I wanna show ya how much I care about’cha, Henry. Same way I did for Sammy. Well, that was mostly for fun and learnin’, but I learned it feels pretty intimate, doesn’t it?”

He couldn’t possibly be implying –

Bendy snapped his fingers. "Yeah, that's a great idea." Using a mighty voice, he threw up his hands and exclaimed, "disrobe, my faithful creator!"

" _What_?"

"Take your pants off, ya dummy!"

Henry wanted to be sick. His back struck the far wall. “I don’t want to do that, Bendy.”

“Don’t be silly, Henry. You'll love it."

"No, I really, really won't."

"Aw, really?" Bendy looked put-out for a second, and then shrugged. "Well, can't help that. Good thing it's not an activity that requires both parties to be happy. I can just truck right along whether you want it or not."

Henry wasn't sure how Bendy had formed that opinion, but the demon was naive if nothing else... Hardly daring to breathe, Henry uttered, "but - it - it does! Require both um, individuals to be happy. It can't happen unless both people want to enjoy it-"

Bendy made a low hissing noise that had Henry shutting up really fast. "Don't lie t'me, Henry. I already learned from Joey that sometimes people are just upset about copulating. Mostly ‘cause they’re kids, but I figure it works the same for adults. Can’t please everybody.”

Wait… “What?” Henry had no idea what was even going on anymore – what was that about kids?

“My point is, we can continue whether ya like it or not.”

“No _no_ -“

"Yuup." The wall behind Henry  _shifted_. Henry yelled and sprang forward, but it made no difference: inky tendrils shot from the sketched-looking boards and seized his limbs. All his strength made no difference to the substance, which was impossibly sturdy, and it wrenched him hard onto his butt. Henry tried to pull himself free, but the ink didn't budge.

He was now sitting, his legs forced slightly apart, completely vulnerable before the demon, in a room that looked like little more than a drawing. A room that, clearly, Bendy completely controlled, much in the way he had controlled the auditorium he'd built... He seemed to be getting only better at that. 

"Cozy?" Bendy asked. It took Henry a horrified moment to realize Bendy was sincerely asking. The demon was  _worried_ that he wasn't _comfortable_.

"No," Henry gasped. "Please let me go. I know I can't fight you, but please, please-"

"That's too bad," Bendy did look genuinely hurt, before he shook away the expression. "You're a fussy one. But that doesn't have t'stop me from havin' fun." 

He grinned jauntily, tail swishing at his heels, as he walked up and settled himself on Henry's lap. His weight was heavy but cold. His legs straddled either side of Henry’s hips. His horns barely reached Henry's chin, but he looked up with a sickeningly eager expression. He was much, much too close. Imminent. 

Henry’s mouth went dry. “Please don't, Bendy.”

Bendy's fingers hovered for a moment over Henry's wrist. The one with a deep bruise hidden under the sleeve, a bruise that the tendrils of ink had been careful to work around. Then, apparently unable to help himself, he gripped it and squeezed. The noise that left Henry's throat was humiliating; Bendy laughed. 

"It's like a part 'a me that goes with you everywhere," he commented, and skimmed his fingers up Henry's arms. His touch was like the brush of death. Icy and uncanny.  

“Don’t cry, creator,” Bendy crooned, petting Henry's shoulders, then cradling his neck. “I’ll be real gentle with you. An’ I can make it feel nice. I learned a lot with Sammy.”

Henry jerked, but the ink bindings held impossibly tight. “Let me go.”

“Nah. I keep tellin’ ya I like you. Want to be closer.” His tail swished, nudging one thigh then the other. The sensation trickled up to Henry’s groin. It left a sour taste in his mouth.

With a twistedly salacious expression, Bendy’s hands slid down his chest, his belly, and then wandered lower. Henry sucked in a sharp breath. “Don’t. Don’t, Bendy. _No_.”

“Yes.” But several seconds passed with Bendy frowning down between Henry’s legs, and his fingers fiddling with his trousers. It took Henry a moment to realize that Bendy's thick fingers couldn't get the button undone. Of all the things. Bendy was trying to – trying to _rape_ him, and he was stalled by the button of his trousers.

“Promise, we’ll get to the sex real soon,” Bendy remarked conversationally.

Henry looked around the room as if to find anything that could possibly help him mentally navigate what was going on. He stared at a sketched barrel incomprehensibly. "Why - why do you want this?" he tried weakly, but he didn't know why Bendy did anything he did, except for the fact he was simply evil.

"It's fun." But the demon looked frustrated. "Golly, I hate buttons. Can't ya get this for me, Henry? Sammy had to.”

"No!" Henry retorted. "No, I'm not going to _help_ you-" He tried to sound firm but it came off as pathetic. It was a weak hope that Bendy wouldn't be able to continue if he couldn't get the button undone.

“Drat,” Bendy replied, frowning. “Hold on, let me try again.”

There were several seconds filled only with the sound of Henry’s fast breathing, and fumbling of fabric. “Tricky lil things, aren’t they?” Bendy said.

Henry… didn’t know how to respond. He felt like he was panicking, but the situation was so absurd he couldn't begin to properly comprehend it.

Then, “aha!” the button came free, zipper went down, and Bendy’s hands were cupping and groping. 

Henry twisted and screamed, “HELP, HELP SOMEONE HELP ME, PL-mmff-“ Fingers wrapped around his face, stifling any further cries.

“No one can hear ya, buddy. We’re separated from ‘em by lots ‘n lots of ink. So really you’re just bein’ loud an’ annoying.”

Henry whimpered under Bendy’s palm. 

"That's right, nice 'n quiet. Just lemme work, all right?" Another hand stroked his cheek, but... that made no sense, because Bendy was still kneading between his legs... 

Henry’s panicked eyes flitted down. Oh. Bendy had four arms now.

“Two’s not always enough,” Bendy said matter-of-factly.

Jesus Christ.

Bendy was tugging him free from his clothes. Henry screwed his eyes shut. Not happening not happening not happening. None of this was happening. None of this was real.

God, he knew it was, but he wished it wasn’t. He didn’t want to experience this anymore. He wanted a different life, a different world, a different realm where this wasn’t going on.

He struggled but couldn't throw Bendy and couldn't free his wrists or ankles from their restraints.

“Yours is so floppy,” Bendy muttered, one hand resting on Henry's hip, another fondling where Henry very much did not want him touching. 

A few cries were stifled by Bendy’s palm.

“Well, that is a-okay; ain’t a problem, Henry.” Bendy adjusted himself on top of him; in the next moment, Henry’s lap was immersed in cold semiliquid, and the substance was squeezing him, pulsing around him. His breath caught. He didn’t want any of this, least of all to have some sick part of him enjoy it.

He spasmed, trying to tear away, but Bendy cranked his head back until his neck was bent close to snapping. His muscles jerked and twitched. Several times his fists clenched, as if to tear Bendy off him, but with his wrists pinned, this did nothing.

“Don’t worry,” Bendy said cheerfully. “I can make it feel nice for ya. I did the trick for Sammy eventually. I think he liked it more _after_ we were caught, to tell ya the truth. But no interruptions this time. Just you and me.”

He couldn't do anything.

“Course, Sammy sorta took charge once Alice left…. I ain’t totally sure how this works yet. Lotta movement, though. Sort’ve-“ Bendy bounced a bit, and then laughed. The ink twined tighter around Henry and undulated in a rhythm he hated to admit was invoking the reaction Bendy hoped for. The entire sensation was painfully forced.

“Hurts,” he tried to say; Bendy’s grip stifled it to just a mumble.

"Don't think it's supposed to hurt..." Bendy hummed. "Maybe ya want it not so tight?" In response, the ink slacked around him, but it was still.... caressing, stroking. Henry had the sense to realize his length was inside Bendy's body, but the demon could clearly shift and adjust the ink that made him up as easily as anything. And he was choosing to use that power for... for this. A jolt went through Henry's body as it licked and squeezed his head. His breath was coming faster, whether he wanted it or not, and Henry was furious at himself, disgusted. 

"That too tight still, or nah?" Bendy asked. "Yeesh, you must be real sensitive 'cause Sammy was bigger than you and he didn't complain or nothin'."

Henry sobbed. His neck ached in the position Bendy was holding his head; tears streaked over the demon’s glove.

"That ain't really informative." Bendy also apparently didn't care much, as he kept up exactly what he was doing, and started to pet Henry's stomach and shoulders with his three free hands.

Exhaustion hit Henry hard, ill-fittingly when he was so strung out with terror and revulsion... but he was crying pointlessly, and this hell just kept dragging on, and there was nothing he could _do_ -

Henry didn’t know how long the nightmare lasted; the two of them disgustingly twined together, the noises wet and unpleasant, and Bendy’s smug voice cooing in his ears. At some point, his mind checked out. Just thinking of nothing, feeling nothing. That was easier.

He would have liked to stay that way, but as his climax approached, he was increasingly dragged back to the mortifying reality. Finally, with a few quiet spasms of his hips, like a crushed moth’s last weak motions, Henry came.

Bendy made a noise that approximated a purr, and then, giggling, added, “that feels funny.” The demon released his face. Henry’s neck throbbed. When he looked down he saw his length buried between Bendy’s legs. Black ink ran in rivulets over his lap and dripped down his inner thighs.

He was shaking.

All four of Bendy’s hands caressed over Henry’s collarbone, throat, and chest. Then he was cradling his face, and Henry didn’t have the energy to jerk away. “I’m glad we did this, creator. A nice bonding experience, right?”

Henry swallowed down the urge to vomit.

“Well-“ Bendy ruffled his hair and patted his cheek. “T’tell the truth, this was a bit of a detour to the main event. I've gotta make some episodes, after all. Let's make this an educational experience for ya. I'll play out my own episode with the other characters, and you can watch, see how ya should've been characterizing Bendy all along. Sound good?"


	19. Bendy

Bendy had always existed. But not always _as_ Bendy. In fact, mostly not. Mostly as something else: something nameless, wicked, and dark. Something with a story of its own, but one that Bendy didn’t want to remember.

The important thing is that a voice called. Or rather summoned. The voice could have been ignored, but why should he ignore it, when it promised a new and different life? So he followed.

He didn’t _meet_ the machine so much as he _became_ the machine. Its many many spidery limbs in the form of pipes winding through the studio, gallons upon gallons of ink… The studio itself, even, if he could properly get a handle on himself. All these things became him, and he tried hard to forget he was ever anything else. And then Joey fed in cartoon reels, sketches, and blood. Bendy devoured all of it, and then he knew what form to take.

So, amidst a blurry haze of candles and chanting, he emerged from the pools of ink. He was small. Not small in size, but small in perception. This form separated him from the expansiveness of the machine. It saw things as dim, fuzzy. He was able to see the room around him, and the objects within it, but little else. He could feel too, but only things he touched. Could hear, but only noises nearby. His huge ink-soaked claws groped at the person who called him, feeling out flesh so delicate and their pulse thundering under his grasp. Not the same blood that was put in the machine.

“Y-you’re not-“ the man stuttered hoarsely.

Bendy. Right. He had gotten a crude, similar form, but it wasn’t quite Bendy yet. A mix between what he was and what he wanted to be.

So he changed to fit the role.

 

Later he came across the machine again, with Henry, and while touching it, he was part of it again. More like he had always been part of it (for as long as he had been Bendy, which was of course as long as he had existed), and this was a reminder. He experienced again the entirety of the studio. Peered into every shadowed room and hall at once. Watched the few tiny humans wandering about completely oblivious to the eyes staring from every wall. What power. He could collapse the entire thing and crush everyone, like a child smashing a dollhouse. And then he could rebuild it, start all over again. Keep playing.

But as soon as he was no longer touching the machine, that power was gone. Or dormant at least. With all the new exciting things to learn about the world around him, Bendy was happy to enough to bench the talent. He would learn how to control the studio without touching the machine, but he wanted to learn about humans first. As it happens, the former started to come naturally as he progressed with the latter.

With enough ink soaked into the walls, Bendy could alter the studio with no problem. Could make an auditorium, for example, or move around the recording studio – or make a nice little room for just him and Henry to spend some alone time.

The ink was doing its work, burrowing in the woodwork, spreading. Consuming the studio. With it, Bendy’s awareness continued to expand. He could see more rooms at once. More halls. More people, some running, some scratching at the walls, some entirely oblivious. All of them to be characters in his show. His control wasn’t complete yet, but… it would get there. And until it did, Bendy didn’t mind staying here for just a bit longer, treasuring this private time with his creator.

“I’ll hafta make some episodes, of course,” Bendy told him, petting his throat and chest. “But come t’think of it, I’ve never made an episode on my own before. Never made an episode at all! I might need your help, Henry.”

Henry didn’t respond. Ever since they copulated together, Henry hadn’t been very talkative. In fact, he hadn’t said anything at all, which was pretty inconsiderate. His face was very pale, the rings around his eyes darker than usual. He refused to look at Bendy, instead choosing to stare off into space. His trousers were still undone, and that weird body part (he still didn't know the name... he'd have to ask Sammy) stuck up inside Bendy, which could have something to do with it.

And sure, Bendy was sympathetic. He _got_ it. Henry was scared of him, and hadn’t wanted to have sex, and was upset he killed Wally. All that stuff. So of course, he wasn’t going to be all that enthusiastic to be carrying on conversation. Bendy didn't entirely mind, because people were most amusing when they were all traumatized. But this whole _ignoring_ deal Henry was pulling off made Bendy feel… tense and unpleasant. He wanted Henry to pay attention to him. Not space off, as if Bendy wasn’t worth paying attention to, as if they hadn’t just shared something so delightfully intimate. They were so close now! Even closer than before.

“You’re bein’ rude,” Bendy sang, and seized Henry’s jaw, forcing the animator to look at him. “Answer me, buddy.”

Henry’s wide, wet eyes traveled down to meet Bendy’s. “What am I supposed to say?” he croaked. It was the weakest, most pathetically spoken statement Bendy had ever heard. But he finally spoke!

A grin immediately appeared on Bendy’s face. “Well, I’ll help ya out.” He clacked Henry’s jaw up and down while talking in a deeper voice, “Sure, Bendy, I love cartoons! Let’s make some episodes together!” Henry didn’t even attempt to stop the puppeteering.

“Glad t’hear you’re so on board with it,” Bendy continued cheerily in his own voice. “I got the characterization down, but you ought’a write the plots. You’re great at plots! Y’had a hand in most of em for the old episodes, right?”

Henry was crying. Quietly, but crying.

“Aw…” Bendy licked the tears right up. “C’mon, Henry. Ya wrote some old plots, didn’t ya?”

When Henry failed to reply (gee, he was really bad at conversation), Bendy talked for him again, “sure thing, Bendy, I wrote all kinds’a great plots!”

“Stop,” Henry uttered once Bendy released him. He said it with no conviction or energy whatsoever.

“Okay this is the part where ya gotta help me,” Bendy said, a touch of irritation crawling into his voice. “I got ya to this point, but the ideas come from you, Henry.”

Henry said nothing.

“You’re a genius, after all. You came up with me!”

Still nothing.

“We should do somethin’ featurin’ Alice. Since we already got her character. Who do ya think should be Boris?”

Henry was back to zoning out. Apparently he didn’t feel the need to respond despite the fact Bendy was trying to have a nice conversation.

“Sammy’d make a good Boris,” Bendy said thoughtfully. “’Cause we get along so well ‘n all. I dunno, you got a better candidate?”

A whole lot of _nothing_.

How aggravating. They couldn't make any progress like this. Maybe Henry just needed a bit of motivation. “C’mon, Henry. Gimme a suggestion. Character. Plot. Somethin’. You got three seconds before I go off to kill someone instead.”

The look Henry gave him was haunted. Defeated. “If I agree to stay with you… to stay in the studio, and do whatever you want… will you let everyone else go?”

What a weird bargain to make. “That would make an all right episode start,” Bendy contemplated. “I can see it. Pretendin’ that I’ll let everyone escape, ‘n then – nope!” To emphasize the point, he clenched his fingers around Henry’s throat.

To Bendy’s immense surprise and delight, Henry started making funny gagging noises, and coughed as soon as Bendy released him. 

A laugh bubbled up – what a ridiculous sight! People always had such strange qualities, like this reaction, and the sick crunching noises of Wally’s skull being smashed. They were endlessly amusing. Experimentally, Bendy squeezed tighter, wondering if there was a next step to this whole deal, and sure enough, Henry’s face was changing color! Getting red!

Some strangled noises were seeping through; sounds that Bendy was pretty sure were supposed to be words. Bendy snickered. “C’mon Henry, _now_ you wanna talk? Why not two minutes ago when I was tryin’ t’have a conversation with you?”

The animator gurgled like a fish out of water. His muscles jumped weirdly under his skin and his entire neck flushed as red as his face. Some syllables squeezed through, a “st-hhpt” and another breathless squeak that Bendy couldn't make out.

“Hmmm, that still doesn’t sound like episode ideas,” Bendy remarked giddily. “Ya should speak up, contribute to the team. I know ya got ideas bouncin’ around in your noggin.”

An unexpected surge of strength shot through Henry; he arched his back half off the ground, nearly unseating Bendy, and thrashed viciously.

“Whoa there,” Bendy chuckled, but the burst of strength was fleeting. In the next second, Henry slumped bonelessly against the wall. Oddly, he stopped struggling altogether. His head lolled to the side, and the reddish whites of his eyes showed under his drooping eyelids.

“Well, that’s attractive,” Bendy chortled, “Y’just wake up lookin’ like that every-“

Wait. He wasn’t moving. At all.

Bendy’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, stop that. It ain’t funny.”

But an unpleasant emotion had burrowed itself deep in his body. People were supposed to move. If they didn't move at all, they were either sleeping or dead, and Bendy didn’t know how to tell the difference between the two. He released Henry’s throat like he was electrocuted. “Henry?”

No response.

“ _Henry_!”

No. No, wait, _wait_. “Henry, stop messin’ with me,” Bendy’s words came out panicked; he grabbed Henry and shook him. “I don’t wanna play this game anymore-“

Henry’s head rolled lifelessly on his swollen, purple-ringed neck.

“Wake up!” Bendy snarled, striking Henry’s face hard. “This ain’t the time to sleep-“ but Wally hadn’t been sleeping, either. “It was an accident, all right?” he growled at Henry, “I didn’t mean to, so you can wake up now!”

The silence twisted up awfully inside him.

“Creator,” Bendy whined, his touches turning soft, petting along Henry’s cheeks, his hair, his abused throat, “creator, c’mon, I need ya.” His arms loosely wrapped around Henry’s neck as he pulled himself into a weird quasi-hug. One Henry was incapable of reciprocating.

“Creator please,” Bendy whispered.

Nothing.

And like Wally, there wouldn't ever _be_ anything, not anymore.

Bendy ripped himself off Henry, expression contorted with fury. “I didn’t mean to!” he yelled at Henry.

No. This couldn't be the end for his creator, the one who shared his blood for him, the one who had designed him. Maybe Bendy could try saving him with ink, like he’d tried with Wally…. But he didn’t know what went wrong the first time – how was he supposed to get it perfect this time? This time, when it really, really mattered? No. No he had to get help, he had –

Sammy! Yes.

They were going to Sammy. Bendy grabbed the lifeless animator and tugged him into the inky darkness.

It spat them both out somewhere in the Music Department (where Bendy had picked up Sammy’s presence), and sure enough, the music director was lurking in the hall. His face lit up the moment he saw Bendy.

“My Lord! There you-“

“Fix him!” Bendy snapped.

Sammy’s eyes swerved to Henry’s body. Any words of worship and praise dwindled into a whole lot of stammering and not nearly enough fixing.

“Fix him or I’ll kill ya,” Bendy growled.

It took Sammy no time at all to dive to Henry’s side. His hands leapt to Henry’s throat, which seemed puzzling, because it was touching that that had done this in the first place. But he must have gleaned something from the action, because he sat back, “He – he’s not dead, my Lord-“

“Well, why isn’t he waking up? Is he sleeping?”

“He’s –“ Sammy’s fingers drifted over the puffy inflamed collar around Henry’s neck. “Just knocked out…”

“Wake him up.”

“I – I – my benevolent God, we must wait, it can’t be hurried-“

“How can ya tell?”

Sammy stuttered.

“That he’s not dead?” Bendy emphasized.

“O-oh, yes - his pulse, it – it will continue to beat if he’s alive. And his breath, of course.”

“His breath?”

“Dead people don’t breathe,” Sammy pointed out. “Henry’s still breathing.”

“Huh.” Bendy squinted. Yeah, his chest was rising and falling a bit. Sammy was right. Bendy hadn't seen that with Wally. Well, that was reassuring. Enough to help soothe that ball of nervousness. He didn’t want his creator to die, at least not yet. Not until he was sure he could bring him back. Over and over and over again. Smiling, Bendy sat beside Henry and patted his slack face. Yes, he’d do awful things to Henry. They’d have all kinds of fun together. Or well, Bendy would have fun, and Henry may or may not…

“Um, if I may be permitted to ask…” Sammy interjected.

“Mhmm?”

“Why are Henry’s pants undone?”

“Oh, we had sex.”

The noise that Sammy made was hilarious and not unlike the choking noises Henry had made. Bendy jerked his head up to make sure Sammy wasn’t about to keel over, too. The Music Director sure looked very red, but he sometimes turned red randomly, so that didn’t necessarily mean he was going to go to sleep.  “Ya all right there, Sammy-boy?”

“Why _him_?” Sammy squawked. “I thought – you and I, Bendy-“

“Aw, what about us?”

Sammy looked away, and took a deep breath. "I don't mean to be presumptuous. You are dark, and unknowable, and I am merely-"

"Get to the point, Sammy." Normally the worship was delightful to listen to, but with Henry getting Bendy all worried, he had less patience for it.

His blue eyes flicked back to Bendy. "Please forgive me, but I thought you... liked me, my Lord."

"Of course I like ya." Bendy even grinned wider thinking about it. Sammy was the only one in the studio who had responded to his presence in such a way. It wasn't the thrilling revulsion and terror of the other studio workers, but it certainly was _thrilling_ (and certainly was terror - poor Sammy quaked in his shoes with adoration and fear, and Bendy cherished the mix). "I like ya a whole lot," Bendy added, then went back to patting Henry's face.

"But-"

Whatever Sammy thought was quickly interrupted by a hacking from Henry, who rolled, coughing, onto all fours, weakly hunched up like some dying animal.

“Henry!” Bendy squealed. “My creator! You’re back!”

Henry seemed determined to cough a lung out, but at least he was awake now, and that meant he could get a proper talking-to. “Lemme tell ya something, buddy,” Bendy slunk close and rubbed Henry’s back. “Don’t you go passing out like that again, mmkay?" Still hacking, Henry started to shuffle pathetically away, cringing from Bendy's touch, and the demon followed. Nothing inspired him to hurt someone more than seeing them try to flee.... it sparked an instinctive interest, a giddy excitement, to chase them down and flay them alive and-

"Bendy!" Sammy was abruptly kneeling beside Bendy, reaching out as if to take his hands, but he paused halfway, eyes terrified. He dropped his head low, "My Lord, if you want to keep him, you must let him recover, my God, my-"

“That’s enough, Sammy.”

Wincing, Sammy bowed even lower. It put his head at a convenient height to pet, which Bendy proceeded to do as he examined Henry. The animator hunched up against the wall, nursing his wounded neck and coughing pitifully. He was watching Bendy with the eyes of a scared rabbit that had already been caught several times and didn't know how it was still alive.

“You’re right,” Bendy decided. "You an' I should work on the music in the meantime."

Sammy breathed a trembling agreement. He seemed to always fall apart at Bendy's touch. Bendy laughed and ruffled Sammy's hair."Assumin' you can focus, a' course."

 


	20. Joey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My girlfriend is moving in with me tomorrow, so my posting schedule might be borked for a bit. Even had trouble getting this chapter out because I've been so excited, haha.
> 
> As for this chapter... It's only half of what I wanted to write, but I figure a shorter update is better than none. Also, mind the tags. Joey's a monster.

Confidence. Don’t let anyone get you down. Pretend everything is fine, even when it isn’t. People follow confidence. And he _needed_ people to follow him. If they didn’t believe in him – well, who would?

(because he certainly wouldn't)

It wasn’t as if he’d truly succeeded at anything before: his life was one failure after another. He had never been enough for his father. Could never focus in school. Was a toy for the older kids to kick around. And when he turned to drawing and fantasies to get him by, his father always asked, “so when will you make anything out of this?” When will you _finish_ something.

Oh, Joey would prove him wrong. If there was anything he could do in this life, he’d prove his father wrong. He threw himself into stories, writing or drawing – creating anything that might prove his worth. And his father moaned that he was wasting his time. “You’ll just abandon it like everything else.”

No.

No he would not, not this time. He hunched over chipped desks and scribbled by candlelight until his eyes couldn't focus beyond a foot. Hours and hours he’d pour into his projects, to the point of obsessive fixation.

But then….

The furor would wane. The passion flicker, fade, and die.

He’d stare at months of work and the thought would stumble in

_I’m going to abandon this like everything else._

That pattern followed him into adulthood, where he lied his way into a job creating small comics for a newspaper. The money it afforded him helped him eke by while he frenetically labored over personal projects. When people asked after those projects, he’d boom, “Oh, it’s going great! Polishing it up for publication!”

But slowly his interest waned. The next thing snagged his attention.

_I’m not going to finish this._

And he didn’t. And he didn’t. And he didn’t.

He never stuck to any project long enough to see it to fruition.

It was just – how could he trust anything would make it anywhere? This and that and this were all wrong; the project would never take off: it was trash, complete garbage – but this new project! Oh, it swept him off his feet, and he’d dive right in, working from sunrise to sunset. You'd never see a more dedicated man! Until, days, weeks, or even months into the thing, it still hadn’t taken off –

_I’m not going to finish this._

But look at this new _new_ project! This one will make it!

Joey couldn't be oblivious to his own creative methodology. He _knew_.

“Just throw enough darts at the board, and sooner or later you hit bull’s-eye!” he announced once.

“Beats doing nothing,” his coworker had to admit.

A quiet anxiety crawled nearer and nearer.

_You’ll never finish anything._

_You’ll never be anything._

Something had to work. Something had to hit home. He meant something. He was something. He could do this.

When others went home to families, he went home alone and fought to make something that would last beyond him while dishes piled up and the apartment became dustier and dustier. Sometimes he forgot to eat, a few times he forgot to pay the bills, and sometimes he did nothing but panic about life closing in while his apartment reeked worse and he persuaded his landlord ever more desperately that of course he’d pay.

“You need a good wife,” a coworker told him once. “A man needs a family to keep him on track.”

He didn’t have time for relationships. He was a man of ambition, of goals, of the ceaseless struggle to prove his name across the country! With a big enough project, he could be remembered for centuries! But the realities of adult life continued to wrap tighter and tighter until he couldn't breathe.

“I’m doing great,” he boasted when he visited his father, yellowed from cirrhosis, “A cozy set up in the better part of town, and a choice bit of calico visiting on the occasion.”

“You only wish,” his dad said.

Joey returned home that evening with extra fire in his blood to succeed, and extra doubt that he ever would.

He lost interest a few days later, and a few days after that, polio hit.

He was hospitalized, lost his job (which had already been fed up with his work ethic), and was – he heard – evicted. Suddenly it was all,

“This cure may help-“

“Or this cure, maybe-“

“You might not walk again.”

“It can get worse, even if you recover-“

At first, nothing could dredge him from despair, not even the quiet relief that, while sick, he did not have to work, pay bills, or manage himself.

It was in the hospital ward at his very lowest point that he met Mary.

Oh, Mary.

Her hair was wispy white; her smile big and carefree. She toddled about on twisted legs, but he didn’t hold that against her – it did nothing to ruin her charms. He could gaze at her round face forever, run his stiff fingers through her hair…

He told her he made comics. She wanted to see. The hospital staff gave him paper and some pencils, and he made stories come alive for her. The little cartoon dog he made for her, she named Scruffy. She sat on his lap and gaily laughed at the little sketches, the Adventures of Scruffy. Something _sparked_.

It was a sort of thing he had certainly felt before – a warm stirring in his stomach upon glimpsing some of his relatives stretching and showing a little hint of their belly, or if their little skirts rode up and teased at a bare thigh. But some part of him had always shoved the thoughts away. Some part of him had managed to convince him it didn’t exist. Because it shouldn't. He knew it shouldn’t and he wanted no part of it.

But with Mary, there was no chance of pretending. He was smitten. He drew and drew little Scruffy for her, and she laughed and clapped at the zany antics of the character. Nothing brought him light like spending time with her, and she too, was so very affectionate, that Joey had to wonder. She’d place her little hand on his thigh, and smile up at him. She sat so readily in his lap, and sometimes bounced in her excitement. She even kissed him on the cheek once.

They had something, he felt it deep down in his bones, but…

How could they? How could she? He incessantly tore apart his mind, reminding himself that she didn’t - couldn't - want the things he craved. That she was innocent, pure, carefree, and he… oh, he was not.

Then one day Mary left the hospital.

The nurses told him she had healed enough to go home, but they would not divulge her last name, or any other identifying information. He knew how persistent asking would make him appear.

The remainder of his stay at the hospital was miserable. There was no Mary to cheer him up. No bright smile to make the hospital seem less bare and deathly white. No reason to draw Scruffy, either. Joey only made one more comic of the dog while he was at the hospital – something short and sweet, about Scruffy meeting a kind young lady and taking her out on a picnic. Seeing the tattered-eared loose-grinned mutt beside a round cartoon child decorated in lace just made him more bitter, and he ripped up the comic shortly after making it.

Finally, his time came to leave the hospital (after recovering from a bout of flu he’d caught towards the end of his stay). He departed in debt, on atrophied legs that didn’t want to support his weight. He also left without the slightest idea where Mary might be, and a consuming guilt that he wanted to track her down. He couldn’t. He wouldn't. He swore he never would (and only kept the promise because he wasn’t sure how to begin finding her).

This was when he turned to alcohol. It was something he swore he’d never touch, not for the illegality, but because of his father. However, an old coworker knew someone who knew someone, and Joey found out how quickly his will could snap.

He bunked with that same coworker, playing up his paralysis while assuring him he’d get a job. Mostly he worked to drown his perverse thoughts of Mary. For so long he had ignored his… proclivities. Crammed them right down. If he didn’t acknowledge them, they didn’t exist! He had work. Goals. No time for relationships.

But now he did not have work. Didn’t have any particular goals. He thought only of Mary. He couldn't bury his thoughts the way he had once before.

He dreamed about her, and woke up shamefully hard. Her tender smile, bright eyes, and soft skin haunted him. No amount of alcohol could douse his guilt, though he tried, again and again and again.

The days and nights blended together in a booze-soaked haze, remembered only in vague patches. It was during this time the gods first started whispering to him. They were young, blue-eyed, innocent and pure. They judged him. Judged his perverse thoughts from a cool, distant perspective, as if he was so far beneath them that he didn't  warrant rage. Merely a detached contempt.

His coworker once found him, drunk and groveling before these gods, and hauled him up, yelled at him.

Joey was humiliated. Disgusted.

This wasn’t him.

This wasn’t what he truly was.

He was a leader, a man of constitution and ideas and the willpower to see them through. He was moral. And he burned when his old coworker looked at him like a sewer rat.

Joey swore to slow down on the drinking, and for a time, managed to. Enough that his old coworker gained back some trust, if not the respect Joey craved.

Then one evening, his coworker grumbled as he stomped through the door, “they’re dumping my niece on me for a day… like I’ve got time to be babysitting! I’ve got work!”

Joey didn’t mean to. “Well, I got nothing but time. I’ll look after the tyke.”

His coworker at first refused. It was only when Joey insisted he wouldn't drink that he tentatively accepted.

A tiny jittery excitement sprouted in Joey’s chest. His guilt took a back seat, mowed down by the anticipation.

When the time came, he showered, combed his hair, and paced.

He met Ruth.

Ruth wasn’t like Mary. Ruth had dark hair and dark eyes that Joey felt were too clever and too wise in the ways of the world. She wanted nothing to do with Joey, and didn’t find his drawings or his mannerisms endearing. Ruth, frankly, behaved nothing like a young lady should. She seemed to even look down on him, which got under his skin like nothing else (later the gods sometimes had brown eyes).

Eventually, her haughty demeanor made him snap: he shook her and yelled at her in raw frustration, his thin fingers digging into her chubby arms.

She started to cry.

Suddenly, she didn’t seem clever and fierce. She seemed soft, sweet. It hurt to see her cry, and he wanted to cradle her, make her feel better, soothe the hurt. The impulse to do just that bloomed hot in his chest. The day had been much too emotional – him putting up with her insolence for so long, and now this sudden lurch into intense affection. He couldn’t stop himself. His thin lips pressed to her plump ones. It was the most heavenly thing he’d ever experienced. His hand cradled her cheek (the marvel of her face being so small, so delicate), and he deepened the kiss.

She ripped away. Guilt swooped into his stomach fast enough to nearly make him sick. Disgust swiftly followed on its heels, and he fled.

The rest of the day they spent apart. Ruth sat in the living room and played with a teddy bear. Joey spent most of the time hyperventilating on the toilet, torn between coils of pleasure, horror and self-loathing.

Apparently Ruth didn’t keep her mouth shut about the whole thing, because two days later, his ex-coworker kicked him from the apartment.

If nothing else, it motivated Joey to finally go job-hunting in earnest. He needed something to take his mind off things. He needed, most of all, to feel in control of himself again (as if he ever had, or ever would).

Joey showed up at another newspaper company without a penny to his name. He dragged out sketches of Scruffy, and described a career he’d never had, which was unfortunately and tragically cut shot with his disease. But he was up and ready to work again!

They rejected him, but the next did not.

So he was back to doing little comics. He found a rundown place to rent, and started over. He’d get it right this time, ab-so-lutely. No doubt about it.

It was at this new company that he met Henry.

And that - that changed everything.


	21. Sammy

Bendy originally had been hell-bent on finding characters and creating episodes (by what means exactly, Sammy did not know). But now the demon insisted on staying in the Music Department, apparently content to ignore the entire collection of human beings scuttling around the studio.

Sammy could guess why: Bendy was worried about Henry. Though he was bad at showing it. The fussy demon towed him into the relocated recording studio, which was now missing the projectionist’s booth as well as the entire wall that booth once occupied. The wall had been replaced by a void of darkness spanning floor to ceiling, which Sammy was too afraid to touch.

As if reading his mind, Bendy cheerily told him “best ta stay away. There ain’t anything there anymore,” which had implications Sammy was too scared to consider.

Sammy had similar trepidation over the fact the recording studio looked… decidedly less real. More sketched. The place was once as familiar to him as the back of his own hand, and though it still bore almost every angle and item it once had, something about it was just different enough to be downright unnerving.

While Bendy dragged Henry in, Sammy drifted to the very fake-looking wooden boards of one wall. Two of them met crookedly, forming a crack, through which Sammy could see nothing, though it was emanating a chilly draft. When he stuck a finger through, there was nothing on the other side. Just cold. Emptiness. As if the room was no longer attached in any sensible way to anything else.

“Bendy…” Sammy said slowly, “Where’s the rest of the wall?”

“Didn’t need it,” Bendy replied, patting Henry’s head in a gesture that was probably supposed to be consoling. Henry, who was crumpled up like tissue paper, flinched with every pat.

“And the rest of the studio?” Sammy asked.

“Oh, it’s all here, floatin’ around.”

Floating around. Okay. Sammy sidled away from the sketched-look boards, which seemed like a frail border indeed between existing and not.

Instead he turned to face the room. Bendy had his gloved hands squished against Henry’s face, and he… was…

Sammy’s stomach churned with disgust and jealousy. Bendy was kissing Henry. Henry Stein, Joey’s favorite, the irritating animator who couldn't possibly deserve Bendy’s attention. Yet Bendy said he loved him. Bendy said he’d fucked him. And now he was doing this.

Sammy wanted to gut Henry from his throat to his groin. “My Lord?” he prompted.

Bendy held up a finger, the classic sign of “just wait one sec.”

It seared to think that the demon cared more for the animator than him. He’d thrown away his entire life for Bendy, and the demon –

No. He couldn't think like this. It was surely blasphemy. He should be grateful for the attention that Bendy did provide him, and he must do everything in his power to prove he was loyal. Bendy had doubted him. As awful as it was to acknowledge, there was reason for doubt – Sammy had thought about his masterpiece, wondered deep down if he shouldn't forsake Bendy and return to the other studio workers.

Bendy would surely like him more – like him even above Henry – if he managed to strangle those traitorous thoughts. He wanted to be loyal.

On some level he knew how twisted it was, to be thinking this rather than dwelling on the mass of terrified people now trapped within these walls. He even could picture them; scratching at the walls, screaming to get out (and how pointless that now was, if the studio indeed was no longer soundly connected to the rest of reality). But Sammy felt nothing for his previous coworkers.

He had never really liked them, no, but also never sincerely wished them harm… at least not for those that bothered him least. But now - now he felt nothing for any of them. No concern for their lives. He should probably be more worried about that. But Bendy had a way of consuming his thoughts.

Sammy just… wished Bendy’s attention wasn’t so divided.

The demon pulled away with a loud smacking noise; Henry nearly fell over backwards and just managed to catch himself with his arms.

“Henry doesn’t kiss like you, Sammy,” Bendy remarked. “He purses his lips ‘n scrunches up his face like he just ate a lemon.”

“I see.” That probably had to do with the fact Henry hadn’t been kissing back so much as he was trying to get away, but Sammy kept that to himself.

“Well, I’m worried about him,” Bendy said as Henry tried to crawl off. He probably would have run if Bendy hadn’t made all the exits disappear. _He_ had no loyalty.

Bendy snapped his fingers. “Maybe he needs some music. I love music! Give us a tune.”

Sammy bit down his frustration, and slunk to the piano. The proximity of the void terrified him, but he was determined to please Bendy. He began a song from one of the first episodes; Bendy squealed upon recognizing it. He swept over to Henry, seized the animator's wrists, and dragged him up with an impossible strength. Henry was forced to stumble along in a ridiculous, clumsy cavorting that could barely be called a dance. It was crystal clear that the Bendy before Sammy was not the dancing demon from the cartoon. But that of course was why Sammy was so fascinated. It wasn’t as if the cartoon iteration could compare to the evils of this one.

If only he wasn't so absorbed with Henry, rather than Sammy...

“Sammy,” whined Bendy, “stop hittin’ the keys like you’re tryin’ to kill the piano.”

Right. Sammy took a shaky breath. Play gently. Smoothly. He tried not to be upset about Bendy paying more attention to Henry, and failed.

Then Sammy’s fingers slipped over a key. Clumsy. Unacceptable. He had to do this one thing for Bendy, and he couldn't even –

It was a mistake he never would have made normally. But his hands were oddly numb and shaky. Every stroke of the keys made his wounded arm ache afresh. And a throbbing headache had taken root in the back of his skull. He was… admittedly not in the best condition. He hadn’t had food all day, much too preoccupied with Bendy, and in combination with his injuries and little water…

Sammy made a soft noise at the thought of said injuries. Of Bendy biting into his arm, tearing into him. He’d love for the demon to do that again.

He’d love to offer his flesh up to Bendy in front of Henry. Show the animator how devoted he was. Such hypnotic images poured into his mind. Sliding himself into Bendy’s chilly, inhuman form, while holding out his arm for Bendy to rip his teeth into. Performing like a toy for Bendy’s pleasure until he was dizzy and faint from blood loss.

“Stop, stop-“

Sammy’s hands froze over the piano keys. “Yes, Bendy?”

“You’re doin’ terrible!”

Sammy stumbled through an apology. 

“And you’re awful pale….” The small demon released Henry, who slicked himself against the far wall and watched the both of them with big, wary eyes.

“Sammy?” Bendy’s words came as if through a tunnel, then sound warbled back in properly, “Sammy-boy, halloo?”

Sammy licked dry lips. “I-I think I need water.”

“Water?” Bendy stuck out his tongue. “Ew, watcha need that for?”

Right. Bendy’s only association with water was being destroyed by it.

“Humans need it to survive,” Sammy explained. Bodies were so inconvenient. Mortal flesh with its needs, so different than Bendy and his ink. “Henry probably needs some too.” There, Sammy would look after Henry like Bendy wanted, regardless of how much he’d prefer to just murder him.

“What do ya do with it?”

“Drink it?”

“Oh, like Joey an’ his alcohol!”

So Joey hadn’t managed to hide that from Bendy, either. “Except water is a necessity for human survival,” Sammy stressed.

“So if ya don’t get it…”

“We can die.”

Bendy’s eyes went big and oval, so startlingly similar to his cartoon self. “Jeez, Sammy, why didn’t ya say so earlier? I didn’t know ya humans could just up and die randomly. You’re even more fragile’n I thought.”

“Yes,” he said simply, then realizing that was an insufficient response, “if you’ll allow me, I’ll-“

“Oh, nah-“ Bendy waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll grab ya both some water. Ain’t like I’ll go sticking my hands in it or nothin’. Though that might be good practice.”

He directed his attention sharply at Henry, who – even completely across the room – shied away like some scared animal.

“I’ll be back, Henry!” He chirruped. “Ol’ Sammy will look after ya and make sure you’re safe, don’t you worry.”

Sammy understood the implicit order. He was to make sure no harm befell Henry.

“Toodles,” Bendy said, and stepped right into the wall. Sammy by now had seen him travel by this method twice, and it was no less jarring to witness it a second time. But Bendy had many strange powers, and it wasn’t Sammy’s place to question them. He was unknowable.

What mattered more is that Sammy missed him almost as soon as he was gone. Bendy came with a… presence, and it was addictive. Without him, a deep loneliness so swiftly descended upon his heart, along with a quiet anxiety that Bendy was off interacting with others again… finding entertainment he couldn't find with Sammy, finding someone else he liked better.

Most likely that entailed terrorizing the other studio members. His own coworkers. It was ironic that the thought of their deaths irritated him now, not because he was at all attached to them, but because it was Bendy killing them. Giving _them_ attention rather than him.

This level of devotion and neediness was foreign to Sammy, who had always preferred his own company above people, but it was consuming… obsessive. And he was helpless to changing it.

Sammy touched the piano, contemplating playing another song – something to capture his longing. But instead he half turned, and his sharp eyes settled on Henry, who had slid down the wall and curled up half hidden behind chairs and music stands.

Sammy lurched to his feet, fighting off a wave of dizziness, and approached.

Henry had not spoken since waking up. His throat bore a thick ring of purplish bruising, evidence of Bendy’s work. Sammy wondered morbidly if Bendy had done it out of anger or love. He selfishly hoped it was anger.

“Why does he care for you?” Sammy asked acerbically.

Henry met his gaze. He looked like a scared rat, his eyes bloodshot. “I wish I knew,” he croaked.

Sammy knelt beside him. “You must have some idea, why my Lord is so…” any word he conjured sounded distasteful, so he fell silent.

“I designed him,” Henry started, until his words dissolved into coughing.

“You designed the form he takes,” Sammy corrected. “You designed the character Bendy, not him.”

“Yeah-“ Henry coughed, “he doesn’t distinguish between the two.”

Sammy skimmed his fingers over the wounds Bendy had left in his arm. Of course, they were still wrapped in bandages, and hidden under his sleeve, but even through these layers he could feel the pressure of his own touch. A welcoming sting. “He will tire of you eventually. And then get rid of you.”

“Sammy, he’s killing people.”

“I know.” How exhilarating to admit. To acknowledge to himself, even. He couldn't help the smirk that graced his lips when he witnessed Henry’s look of revulsion.

Henry said nothing. Sammy rather liked that there was no incessant pleading, no piteous attempt to persuade Sammy that “this isn’t you” or “please let me go” or anything silly like that. Henry knew this was Sammy. Knew his loyalty to Bendy was true.

Then Henry lifted his head. “Is this really what you want?”

Sammy had a split second to be offended before a loud clatter had him jumping in shock.

Bendy was back, sprawled amongst a sizable pile of bacon soup cans and a big metal bucket that was tilted over, spilling water over the floor.

“Shoot, hold on-“ Bendy scrambled to grab the bucket and turn it upright, but all the water was nearly gone. Bendy popped back into the floor in a puddle of ink, and a few moments later reappeared with the bucket refilled.

“I decided we ought’a have a picnic,” Bendy explained, waving at the soup (and there was a lot of it – Sammy wondered if Bendy hadn’t just cleared out the entire collection of soup from the studio.) “We’ll get you all the food and water you need,” he added, marching over to Henry, who attempted to sidle away but wasn’t remotely fast enough to avoid Bendy clamping his hand down on his arm. The animator was dragged to the soup and forced to sit – he didn’t scream, or lash out, or fight throughout this process, meaning he probably realized how futile those actions would be. But his face did twist in pain, and Sammy recalled the bruise on Henry's arm. 

“Look, we can even eat together,” Bendy said cheerily, grabbing a soup can and shoving the entire thing into his mouth, grinding up the metal as he chewed. “Delicious!” he announced, and handed a soup can to Henry.

Sammy took his own can, but didn’t know how he was supposed to open it.

Bendy seemed to be encountering the same issue with Henry.

“C’mon, creator, eat,” he urged, and Henry stared at him wildly.

“I can’t eat the whole thing.”

“Why not?”

Henry was at a loss for words.

“Humans can’t eat metal,” Sammy input. “Henry needs the soup in it, not the can itself.”

“Oh, right-“ Bendy reached for the can: Henry flinched back so hard it was impossible to miss. But Bendy sank his teeth into the metal, biting off and eating the entire top fourth of the can.

Sammy’s arm throbbed in the memory of those teeth sunk into his flesh.

“Here ya go, Henry.”

Henry stared down at the soup mutely.

“Eat up. Gotta stay healthy.”

Henry did nothing.

“Sometimes,” Sammy interjected, smirking, “people don’t eat because they want to die, Bendy. They’ll starve themselves.”

Bendy’s tail lashed. “Oh no, Henry, you’re not gettin’ away with that, not on my watch!”

It was with great amusement that Sammy watched Bendy cram the serrated edge of the soup can to Henry’s mouth and force the slop down his throat while Henry coughed and squirmed and choked. It wasn’t like there was any saying no to Bendy. He had Henry’s hair firmly gripped in one hand, and Sammy knew from personal experience how strong he could be.

Sammy was fairly certain Henry ended up with more of the soup down his shirt than in his stomach, but either way, the can was emptied, and Bendy finished up by patting Henry’s ruffled hair. “See, that’s not so hard,” Bendy said cheerily while Henry coughed soup from his trachea.

“Yes, Henry,” Sammy seconded, “It’s for your own good.”

Henry’s lips sported small cuts, which Bendy proceeded to lick, and then Sammy was in a much more sour mood.

“I bet he needs water,” Bendy remarked, pulling back.

Sammy agreed resentfully.

Bendy dragged the bucket nearer, grasped Henry’s hair, and before Sammy could say a single thing, Bendy had dunked Henry’s entire head into the bucket.

That went just about as well as one might expect. Sammy wasn’t sure how much Henry managed to actually drink – probably nothing – but he certainly choked and spewed water and soup.

“I dunno, Sammy,” Bendy noted, “this kinda does the same thing as Joey’s alcohol.”

Despite his jealousy, Sammy couldn't help the amusement at Bendy’s naiveté. And there was some satisfaction knowing it resulted in Henry’s distress. It was… strange, feeling comfortable enough around the ink demon to be amused. It settled nicely in his belly, like he and Bendy shared some sort of connection. He was still terrified, sure – it was impossible not to be. But he and Bendy shared a link that Henry did not.

Somewhat pacified, Sammy dragged the bucket of water closer. He didn’t really want to drink from the bucket now, which had bits of ink and soup in it (and had previously had Henry’s entire face in it). But it was the only water Bendy had acquired. Sammy cupped his hands in it and sipped. It distracted him, at the least, from Bendy petting and fawning over Henry (and trying to force more soup down Henry’s throat.)

“Bendy, if you would be so kind,” Sammy interjected, “my soup needs to be opened too.”

“If you would be so kind,” Bendy repeated, and laughed. Adjusting his bow tie as he neared, “if YOU would be so KIND. If you would be so kind!” Again he ripped the top off with his teeth, and handed the can over. Sammy wasn’t sure if the demon was making fun of him or not, but he didn’t mind either way when Bendy elected to sit beside him rather than Henry.

Bendy had failed to provide any silverware or means to eat the soup, so Sammy awkwardly sipped it while the demon looked expectedly at him.

Personally, Sammy had always hated the bacon soup. The crud was ink-black, of questionable texture, and so salty that it had Sammy scrunching his face up at every sip. But it was what Bendy provided, so it was what he would eat.

“If you would be so kind,” Bendy said again, flatly.

Sammy froze. Did he want something? Should Sammy be doing something for him? What was he expecting?

“If you would be so kind.” He said it like a statement rather than a question.

While Sammy quietly panicked over the potential nuances of its meaning, Bendy abruptly said in an entirely different tone, “Oh, hey, there’s somethin' I’ve been wondering.”

“What is that?”

“How do humans have sex?”

“...What do you mean?”

“I mean- Y’said I needed some kinda hole to accommodate you, and I got that down. Sure, that makes sense. But now I don’t get how _humans_ do it. Ya don’t have ink that can transform, you’re just sorta… stuck with your-“ Bendy waggled his fingers demonstratively.

“Oh.”

“So if, say, I wanted you an’ Henry to copulate, since you’re my favorite people ‘n all, how would ya do it?”

Henry choked and slapped a hand to his mouth to stop bacon soup from spilling over the floor. Sammy, too, couldn't help his disgust. “Um.”

“Don’t leave me waitin.”

“I….” Sammy looked down at his partly eaten soup can. “I would rather not do that, Bendy.”

“But _how_  would ya, if ya did?”

Sammy didn’t think he was going to have to explain this. He knew there were ways, of course, and he had heard of them, but… Given the circumstances, maybe it was best to avoid mentioning that. “Normally… one-“ Sammy coughed. “Well, men normally do that with women, not other men.”

“That don’t really explain anything,” Bendy said blankly, and that’s when Sammy properly realized Bendy probably had no idea men and women had different genitalia to begin with.

“Does it turn inside out?” was his next question: Sammy resisted the impulse to clutch between his legs in horror at the idea.

“No – no – just – women have something closer to what you have.”

“Bendy, stop.” Henry finally cut in, gazing at the demon with haunted eyes. “Why do you want to know this?”

“I’m just curious! Yeesh, you don’t have to get all weird about it.” Bendy flicked Sammy’s zipper and then the music director did grab himself protectively. “So you’re sayin’ not everybody’s got this?”

“Right,” Sammy said in relief. “And generally sex is something only done between males and females.”

“Weird." Bendy spent a moment, perhaps contemplating the nuances of sexual organs, before he swallowed another soup can whole. Wiggling his feet, he looked up at Sammy. "You said  _generally._ So go copulate with Henry. Show me how it’s done.”

Sammy met Henry’s eyes. In another situation, Sammy might have enjoyed his stricken look, and his terror wondering whether Sammy would obey or not.

“My Lord, I could simply explain…”

“You were hedgin’ around it earlier. Seems easiest just to demonstrate!”

Henry started in again, his voice raspy and defeated, “I could show you how to draw, Bendy. Or watch the episodes with you. Anything you’d like.”

“Henry. Henry. Henry, this is you.” Bendy held up one hand and wiggled his fingers. “This is Sammy.” His other hand. “Want you two to-“ He squashed his hands together. Then, apparently flummoxed by the lack of penetration in his demonstration, he frowned and poked at his palms. As Sammy watched, he poked straight through his palm and grinning, returned Henry’s horrified look. “That’s what I’d like.”

Henry stuttered; Sammy interrupted, “It would be bad for him. To um, copulate.”

“Bad for him!?”

“Puts him under more err, stress, and-“

“Would he get hurt?” Bendy asked, alarmed.

“Yes – possibly,” Sammy seized upon that idea in relief. It wasn’t truly a lie – Henry seemed on the verge of a psychological breakdown. Bendy had already raped and tormented him; the animator most likely couldn't take anything more. If that excuse got Sammy out of doing what Bendy demanded, then all the better.

"People are too fragile," Bendy replied quietly. It was an oddly mature-sounding sentiment, less childish, but only creepier through his tone. Then he went right back to the cheery kiddish mien as he decided, "You'll just have to do it when Henry's feelin' better!" 

Great. Delaying the inevitable. “That may be a while,” Sammy said. Henry said nothing. Most likely because he was visibly deteriorating before Sammy’s eyes. Sure, he’d had food and water now. But the situation was spiraling so far out of his control and comprehension that he kept spacing out for longer and longer periods of time, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

He was doing that now, in fact, and it was frankly unnerving.

“We got nothin’ but time,” Bendy answered, and dragged the water bucket towards himself. Without further ado, he stuck his entire hand in.

“Bendy!” Sammy twitched as if to yank his arm out, but Bendy shook his head.

“The water thing is a problem, Sammy.” He stared down at the liquid, now swirling with the black ink that was oozing off his body. “While we wait, I’m gonna fix it.”


	22. Henry

Henry couldn't keep his thoughts together. They swam meaninglessly about, like little dead fish drifting in ink, unconnected, lost.

To his left the room dropped into a complete void. In front of him, Bendy was playing with the water bucket while Sammy provided encouragement. To the right, the recording studio. Henry was certain now it did not look the way it had before – more like it had been pulled straight from a cartoon, not from reality.

And Henry… Henry wasn’t doing anything.

It occurred to him he ought to stop Bendy from experimenting with the water. The last thing they needed was for the demon to overcome the one weakness they knew about. But the signal to say or do anything didn’t extend past his brain. His body felt cottony. Heavy and unresponsive.

Part of him wanted to step into the void and stop existing. Part of him was paralyzed at the thought of doing so. Part of him thought that he couldn't stop existing now: the others needed him. He couldn't abandon them. But… he wasn’t doing any good here, either. He was at the mercy of both the demon and the music director, neither of which would provide him any help, he knew now. Sammy was just as likely to facilitate harm as Bendy.

He should…. Focus on escaping. Somehow.

But he lost hope before he even began. There was no way, not with the two of them watching him. And he had no energy whatsoever. He just wanted to curl up and stop existing. Gather the pieces of himself together, if he could.

“Drat,” Bendy was saying as he lifted his arm out of the water to find a lumpy dripping mass at the end of it – nothing close to a hand.

“My Lord, are you okay?” the reverence in his words made Henry sick. Sammy worshipped this thing. Sammy adored him. Wanted nothing more than his approval and attention, and was willing to do such awful things to gain it. If there was ever any hint of morality or conscience left in Sammy, Henry was certain now it was gone. The demon had him entirely in his thrall.

“It’s so hard not to fall apart,” griped Bendy, who stuck his other hand directly into the bucket. "Say, Sammy, d’you know how to work a projector? I tried earlier, but boy, it was confusing.”

Sammy looked puzzled by the abrupt change in topic. Henry was beginning to understand that was simply how Bendy’s mind worked. He leapt frenetically from one subject to the next, as if he couldn't focus long enough to complete any given idea. “I… have never done it, my Lord, but I could try…”

Henry's head dipped. Despite himself, exhaustion was catching up to him. He'd slept more in this day than he had in a long while, but the constant torture wore him down.

“Right, you're the music guy. Who's the projector guy?”

“That would be Norman…”

“Oh.” Bendy lifted his arm out of the bucket. This one, too, was reduced to a dripping mass of black and white ink. His other hand had by now reformed. “This is hard,” Bendy whined. Then he stuck both arms into the bucket. “I haven’t met Norman yet.”

Henry's eyes drooped. He couldn't think of anything but ink. 

“I haven’t seen him today either,” Sammy said. “Perhaps he ran into the lower levels.”

Swirling black ink, bubbling up from the paper he drew on.

“What’s he look like?”

“Tall. Uh, short brown hair, uh-"

Ink rising like a tide to his chin, tickling higher to his lips.

“Taller ‘n you?”

“About the same.”

“Mm, can't find him... But wow, there’s a whole lotta people crawlin’ around now. This place really gets busy during the day!”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Nothing but ink.

“You’ll hafta help me pick out Norman later, mmkay? After a certain point everyone .... And also a few other characters… I’m still …. A Boris… …  
…  
anything you wish, Bendy.  
…..  
get lotsa writin’ done once he’s-  
……  
……  
…………………………………………

……………..enry…..

creator. Creator. Henry. Henry. HenryHenryHenryHenry-“

Henry thrashed awake, squashed against the wall, chest heaving. Bendy was inches away. “Hiya creator,” he whispered, caressing Henry’s cheek. His hands and arms were fully reformed. The bucket, stained and streaked with ink, sat innocuously in the middle of the room. Some time must have passed. Henry dreaded to wonder how successful Bendy’s endeavor with the water had been.

“Takin’ a lil nap?” Bendy asked softly.

“Ngh.” What did he want. What was he going to do. Because he was going to do something, Henry knew that. Something horrific.

“I was worried you were dead at first,” Bendy confessed. “But Sammy here told me you were sleepin’, and I thought ya looked pretty cute, so I letcha rest. Sammy says it’s good for getting better.”

Henry’s eyes drifted past Bendy. The Music Director stood near, his blue gaze icy and jealous. He had not said a single word for Henry's sake. Of that the animator had no doubt.

“Are ya feelin’ any better?” Bendy asked. “Ready for sex?”

Henry jerked back fast enough that his skull cracked against the wall. "Ow!" He grabbed his head. Explaining anything to him felt futile, but Henry tried anyway, “People don’t recover that fast.”

“That fast? Henry, it’s been like, a couple hours, at least!”

“You nearly killed me.”

“Sure, hours ago.”

Henry wanted to curl up and be nothing. He felt on the verge of crying, but no tears came. “I-it takes days. Weeks.”

Bendy stared. “That long?”

“Yes,” Henry whimpered.

Bendy whistled. “Sammy, he tellin’ the truth?”

Sammy shifted from foot to foot. “Yes, my Lord.”

Bendy gazed back at Henry. He was uncomfortably close. Terrifyingly close. Henry had never been so certain that he wasn’t going to survive this ordeal. That none of them were.

“Well,” Bendy’s tail swished at his heels. “I’m not that patient. I don’t think a lil’ fun will kill him. Sammy? Go do sex with Henry. Now now now, skidoo!”

Sammy froze. “My Lord-“

Bendy flapped his hands at Sammy. "I wanna watch, go go- I'll be right over here makin' sure you do it right." Bendy trotted to their pile of bacon soup and, reclining back in it, grabbed a can to gnaw on. 

Henry swerved his regard to Sammy, heart thundering. This one thing, Sammy had to refuse. Sammy wouldn't agree.

Their gazes met. Sammy’s eyes were cruel; his lips were peeled up in disgust. He couldn't disguise how little he wanted this, too. But he wasn’t saying no.

“Don’t-“ Henry started weakly.

“Sa-aammy,” Bendy sang.

“If there’s anything else I can do…?” Sammy tried.

“Nuh-uh. Do it now, buddy."

Sammy looked back to Henry.

“No,” Henry pleaded. “Sammy, please. We worked together. You don’t want to do this.”

“I don’t,” Sammy said. “But I serve Bendy. Whatever he asks of me.”

Bendy giggled.

“No please-“

Sammy approached as Henry shrank away. When he grabbed his wrists, his grip was resolute. But he was human – not like Bendy. He could be fought. Henry pinwheeled his wrist to worm out of Sammy’s clutches, and then he made a beeline across the room.

Sammy shot after him while Bendy laughed like it was a circus.

“Fight, fight, fight!” Bendy crowed.

There weren’t any doors and Henry’s terror of the void overrode his desire to jump in it. Sammy eventually caught him at the far corner of the room, crunching him against the wall like a bug, the bones of his forearm grinding against Henry’s abused throat and his breath hot on his face.

“Just hold still and make this easy for both of us,” Sammy growled at him.

Henry croaked, “we can fight him together-“ it wasn’t true. He was certain Bendy could easily take on the both of them as well as the entire collection of people in the studio. But he had to say something.

Sammy pressed closer. A smirk played at his lips. “I don’t want to fight him." Henry jerked like a fish at the end of a line – Sammy’s grip tightened and stilled him. “I will do whatever he asks,” Sammy continued lowly. Henry’s heart dropped to his stomach when he realized Sammy was reaching down to undo his trousers. “I will prove my loyalty to him… no matter what I have to do.”

“He’ll kill you-“

“So be it.”

Then Sammy stopped talking, occupied with the struggle of undoing Henry's pants button with one hand. In his momentary distraction, Henry again jerked out of his grip and careened across the floor, twice tripping and nearly faceplanting.

The abyss. The wall that wasn’t a wall – maybe it would kill him, maybe it would be nothing, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this- Henry shot towards the black void, but he never made it there.

The floor burst open with black ropes that seized his ankles. He hit the ground hard; Henry screamed in frustration.

“Just lendin’ a hand,” Bendy said cheerily as numerous white-gloved hands sprouted from the woodwork and yanked his trousers down his thighs.

"Get it?" Bendy added. "Did you get it? Lending a  _hand-"_

Henry’s nails splintered as he clawed futilely at the floorboards.

"I thought it was funny," Bendy muttered. 

Another hand – this one very human, warm with long thin fingers – came down on the back of his skull. Henry’s face ground against the floor, mushing his nose and muffling his words. “Sammy,” Henry whimpered. “Don’t – don’t-“

“Quiet.”

He couldn't see anything behind him; could only hear, and horribly, imagine.

“Aw, you’re all floppy. Sammy-o, I thought ya had to be all erect for this.”

“I – I will be, my Lord, just let m-“

“Shh, I’ll help ya.” Bendy’s feet padding over the floor. A soft grunt from Sammy. A slick, disgusting pumping.

“Y’like it wet?” Bendy purred.

Sammy moaned assent. Henry’s stomach churned, but his mind had gone oddly blank. He didn’t struggle, either. This was happening. He couldn't do anything to stop it. And although every bone in his body screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something, he couldn't bring himself to move an inch, not anymore.

He just drank in the sounds, whether he wanted to or not. Sammy’s breath getting short. Revolting licking and sucking.

“My Lord,” Sammy groaned.

A wet pop. “All right, Sammy-boy. Go.”

Fingers hesitantly touched Henry’s buttocks. “I….” Sammy started.

“Don’t you wanna make me happy?”

“Y-yes, Bendy.”

"Well, ándale!"

After that, Sammy didn’t hesitate. These actions were nothing more than a means to an end. Something blunt jammed against Henry’s entrance. It wasn’t going to fit: he was too tense, Sammy too big – Henry could have laughed in relief, because what Bendy wanted wasn’t possible; Sammy would see that and give up –

Still the music director rutted against Henry again and again, missing its mark and either sliding between his cheeks or jamming against his balls. Sammy grasped himself and tried to cram the tip in, yet again to no avail. _It wasn’t going to fit why wasn’t he stopping_

“My Lord,” Sammy said, “I can’t – I can’t get it in.”

“Try harder,” advised Bendy. “Didn’t think I could crack open Wally’s skull with a wrench either, but with enough determination, anything’s possible!”

“If I were to have some sort of-“ Sammy stumbled over the word, “err, lube, then perhaps it would be easier-“

"Lube?"

Sammy choked. "Lubricant, Bendy, to - to-"

Bendy hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know if that’s really necessary, Sammy.”

“ _Please_ allow me to use something, Bendy.”

"Well, if you're that desperate...."

Henry didn’t know what Bendy did exactly, but when Sammy tried to shove into him again, he was much colder and wet. Ink, Henry realized belatedly.

Then something gave. All at once, Sammy’s entire length slid into Henry. Henry screeched but there was no time to adjust – Sammy immediately began forcing himself in and out, using Henry’s body like some machine. Just a means to an end.

Henry weakly tried to crawl away from the agony, but the cartoon hands only dragged him back onto Sammy’s cock.

“Aw, I knew you’d enjoy yourself,” Bendy lilted as he settled himself cross-legged in front of Henry.

“Anything for you, my Lord,” Sammy replied breathily.

“He’s such a charmer,” Bendy told Henry matter-of-factly as tears squeezed from Henry’s eyes.

“I would… vastly prefer intimacy with you, my god,” Sammy dared to add.

“Don’t test your luck, buddy. I wanna see that white stuff. Looks kinda like ink. An' you're gonna keep doin' this until one of you makes it."

“Yes.” Sammy bowed his head and gritted his teeth.

His hips thrust forward in harsh, mechanical snaps. It was never clearer he hated what he was doing – because it was with Henry, not Bendy, and Henry could feel with every stabbing jolt that the Music Director despised him. They had never got along before, but this – this was brutal. Henry was just meat that Sammy would prefer to see dead rather than to fuck.

He clawed his long fingers over Henry’s shoulders, better positioning him to be plowed into. He vented his frustration and hatred by drilling mercilessly into Henry’s body, reaming him open.

Henry’s cries meant nothing at all to either of the monsters with him. To Bendy, they brought only pleasure, and the little demon happily rocked in place. “Gosh, Henry, that looks like it really hurts. Copulation is sure strange.”

“Make him – ah-stop, pl-ease, Bendy” Henry gasped, his legs stupidly jolting and twitching.

Bendy’s hands closed over Henry's tear-streaked cheeks. Contrary to Sammy, he was filled only with a sick delight, transfixed by Henry’s suffering like he’d never witnessed something so beautiful before. His bifurcated tongue licked from Henry’s chin up to the corner of his eye, once on each side, lapping up his tears like it was the sweetest nectar.

“Aw, Henry,” he purred, tail coiling and uncoiling. “I love seein’ ya like this.”

Sammy gave a particularly vicious thrust; Henry yelped, his hole gaping as Sammy continued to pound into him mercilessly. Sammy’s nails were digging into his shoulders. The abuse was endless. The pain wasn’t going to end. It would just be this, forever.

Sammy’s breathing stuttered. His hips lost their rhythm as he seemed to be trying to shove himself as deep as possible in short, needy thrusts.

“Stop,” Bendy ordered.

Sammy Lawrence went still. Henry shuddered as he felt the music director’s dick twitch inside his ruined insides.

“B-Bendy,” Sammy breathed reverentially. “My God. My magnificent-“

“I’ll letcha start again soon just hold on a sec –“

Sticking his tongue out between his teeth, Bendy scooted onto his back and then wiggled underneath Henry until his legs framed Henry’s hips. He was very very small beneath Henry, his head only coming up to Henry’s chest, and his voice was muffled as he said, “Oh! Looks like you’re already rarin’ to go, creator.”

 _What_? Henry mentally tugged himself from his haze. Oh. Oh, God. He was already hard. He’d barely noticed through the pain. Bendy chuckled. “Y’really like Sammy, huh? I understand - I love him too. He’s huge, ain’t he? Got a couple inches on you, I’m sure.”

Henry wanted to vomit. Bendy’s legs wrapped around his hips, and the demon wriggled down on his cock. He was wet. Tight. Painful and pleasurable. Ink undulated around Henry’s sensitive head, kneading in a way that made Henry gasp. A tremor ran through his thighs at the sensation. By now, he was hatefully familiar with the ecstasy that he wanted none of. This was a violation of the worst sort. Used like a toy by both Sammy and Bendy at once, and some part of him forced to enjoy it.

Bendy giggled and petted over his shirt. “You feel nice, too, Henry, even if ya aren’t as big as Sammy. Love ridin’ you.”

Henry stared at the floorboards. There was nothing to do. This wouldn't end until Bendy willed it.

“My Lord?” Sammy supplicated, hoarse with need.

“Aw, go on and give it to him.”

That was all the warning before Sammy’s punishing thrust drove Henry’s smaller body against Bendy.

“It’s like a sandwich,” Bendy remarked conversationally. “And those noises always amuse the heck outta me.”

Sammy’s bruising vindictive pace forced Henry against Bendy repeatedly. Henry’s knees at this point were half numb, half in agony, and his insides hurt so badly he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel anything the same again. It was a struggle just to hold himself up off of Bendy.

“I feel like I should be in the _middle_ of the sandwich,” Bendy continued thoughtfully while dumb squeaking yelps were ripped from Henry’s throat repeatedly. “’Cause I’m the smallest, yanno? Like a condiment, an’ you two are the bun. Oh! That woulda been great, ‘cause our picnic was missin’ sandwiches. Shoot, I shoulda been in the middle.” Bendy snapped his fingers as if this was the most casual and normal activity ever, as if Henry wasn’t being ripped in half and humiliated beyond reason. “I went about this all wrong, but now I’d look all silly changin’ it up now.” He poked Henry’s belly. “If ya make a mistake, sometimes you just gotta roll with it. That’s a lesson in one of the episodes, Henry. See? I learned a lot from you. An’ now we got this imperfect sandwich. That’s mostly on you, Henry.”

“Bendy,” Sammy murmured with awe, and then picked up a cadence with his thrusting, “Bendy, Bendy, Bendy, Bendy-“

“Ain’t he funny?” Bendy asked, winding his tail around Henry’s thigh. “Henry? Henry, ain’t he funny?”

Henry sobbed. Sammy had to be splitting him; he wouldn't be surprised if there was blood dripping down with the ink.

“Boy, you're boring. I'm just trying to have a conversation. Now what are we supposed to talk about?”

For a few seconds, there was nothing but noises. Crying and moaning and Sammy’s prayerful litany.

“Oh, hey Henry, what’s your favorite color?” Bendy asked.

“Bendy-Bendy-Bendy-Ben-ha-“ Sammy’s fists clenched in Henry’s skin. His body pressed flush to Henry’s, and it was hot, sweaty. “Bendy,” he sighed into Henry’s ear.

Henry wanted him off. Wanted Bendy away from him. Wanted none of this to have happened.

Sammy ripped out. The dribbling of liquid that followed his exit was only the latest in a long line of things that made Henry want to die. He swayed, then thumped down on his side, shivering as if he were freezing though he was sure his body was too hot.

Bendy kicked away from him and stood up, grinning as if nothing had happened.

“Well, that was fun. But ya didn't tell me your favorite color.”


	23. Joey

Henry was a young optimistic editor with a calm demeanor that Joey jealously admired to the point he wanted to destroy it.

Henry also had a girlfriend that he spoke of in only the kindest of tones; he tended to smile and look away shyly when she was asked about. He wanted to get a small home, and he admitted once that he hoped to ask Linda to marry him one day.

Joey didn’t know if he hated Henry or wanted to be him.

What Joey _did_ know was that Henry could draw. More than that, he could _animate_. Now, no part of Henry’s job involved drawing. He was an editor for the paper. Joey always figured the man’s forte was writing, not drawing. But one day he glimpsed Henry fluttering the pages of a little sketch-filled flipbook, and his interest was snagged.

“What’s that you got there?”

“Oh, sorry-“ Henry furtively tried to cram the flipbook into his packsack, but Joey snatched it before he could. It was a very simple little animation: a tiny mouse stealing a bit of fruit and scampering off, but its endearing design and the astonishingly smooth transitions – even the remarkable glide of the character’s motion – immediately struck Joey.

“Incredible!”

“It’s nothing.”

“How did you become so talented?”

Henry shrugged dismissively. “Watching cartoons as a kid inspired me. I’d try to doodle all the cartoons onto paper as I watched but –“ Henry laughed quietly, and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, I never stopped drawing. You're... Joey, right? You make the comics for the paper?"

"That's right I am!"

"My stuff is nothing like that." Henry looked away. "Honestly, I traced some of your cartoons to get a better idea of expressions... always the thing I struggled the most with. Oh, I'm - I'm Henry."

"I know. You got any more of those flipbooks?" It took some convincing, but Henry dragged out stacks and stacks of paper from his packsack.

"It's just a small hobby," he said.

Joey was blown away. _Inspired_.

He'd always focused his attention on comics, but animations - that was the key! Looking at Henry's skillful work, he could feel it in his blood: this was where he’d leave his mark. Invigorated, Joey went right home, shot past the dirty dishes, and was nearly shaking with anticipation as he began to animate his old character Scruffy.

But…

It took a very long time.

Joey was reaching for his alcohol several hours into it, dismayed at his pathetic progress. Henry’s lines had not been clean, but he’d had so many sketches and they flowed neatly together…. Joey’s sketches were refined, but he had hardly any and it was difficult getting the timing correct. He couldn't imagine doing this for days, weeks, months, years. It was soul-crushing. But Henry, evidently, had been doing just that. And he had a skill for it: something that any person might eat up the second they realized how damn good he was. Yet again Joey was furiously jealous, but he couldn't let an opportunity slip through his fingers.

Joey abandoned his own work, and then next day asked Henry, “Have you ever considered doing something more with that?”

Henry lit up at the question. He rambled on and on about how he’d love to put something on the silver screen to uplift people. To make some difference, even in the smallest of ways.

“Oh, absolutely,” Joey replied. “The influence of television is only getting greater and greater, Henry. What a thing it’d be, to be part of that!”

“But,” Henry revised, “I’m also happy making these little books. I’d like to give them to my kids – I mean, if I ever have any.”

Henry lacked ambition, Joey decided. Sure, he worked hard as an editor (ignoring the times he secretively pulled out his little flipbooks), and he wanted to make money for the family he was hoping to build, but he had no _fire_. No fury! No roaring screaming _need_ to climb the ladder higher and higher.

“Guys like us, we shouldn't be stuck doing the small stuff. We could make something great. Something that could last for generations to come,” Joey told him once. Henry shrugged.

“What if you could draw all the time?” he suggested another time.

“That’d be nice.”

Another time, “I bet people would love to see these characters on the big screen. You know, I was thinking of starting up my own little studio. These papers, they’re just printing one god-awful story after another. Wouldn't it be great to bring some joy into people’s lives? It’s a guy like you who can make that a reality.”

Finally a little hope sparked in Henry's eyes, and Joey knew he had him. 

The next weeks were a work in progress.

"Can you picture it?" Joey spread his fingers wide. "The two of us, making the next big hit. We're talking money and fame beyond anything you've imagined. What a cozy place you could get for Linda then, eh?"

See, Joey had realized something. All his life, he'd been trying to go it alone. But the greatest animation masterpieces were really collaborations of many people. One guy leading, and a whole bunch following. Their reach extended far past that of any measly comic strip in the newspaper - and if he wanted that, he needed to tap into the power of collaboration. With Henry's skill, and Joey's drive, they could go far. 

"What are you making here anyway?" Joey asked, then, "no, don't say. It's not enough, Henry, I know that - to support a wife and kids. But let me tell you, I've got big plans for our studio. Big plans for the future."

It took more persuading, more remarks, more ideas wormed into Henry’s head, before the excitement really caught. And once Henry was really excited, so too was Joey. They were going to make it  _big._

Joey secured a loan, and thus Joey Drew Studios was born, starting with a ratty janitor, the cheapest music director Joey could find, a projectionist who had been out of work for two years, Henry, and of course, Joey Drew himself.

"This!" Joey Drew introduced the cobwebbed and rundown establishment he'd acquired, "is where we're going to make the magic happen. Everybody starts somewhere, Henry Stein, and you and I? _This_ is where our greatness starts."

But greatness started slow, it seemed. In the first weeks of operation, everyone had to pitch in just to clean and organize the place, getting it suitable enough for a workspace. Joey marched from one side of the studio to the other and back again, tossing in encouragement and inspiration for all involved.

Even once the actual animation  _work_ began, the studio still only limped along, running in the red on the marginally popular cartoons it produced, all of which were written by Joey and drawn by Henry.

Joey had to be at the top of his game to keep everyone lively and working hard. The job nearly tore him to shreds - it killed to be uplifting while bills mounted and his quiet panic grew (this was another failed project, this would all end in disaster-). But everyone seemed to look up to him. It was a rush, an ecstasy, entering the studio and knowing it was _his_ , "ours," Henry once reminded him, confused, and Joey nodded, "yes, of course, ours." If only they could gain the attention and money it deserved.

Then Henry came up to his desk once, and fidgeted, and said, "Joey, I don't know if I can keep doing this amount of work. We need to hire someone else, or consider other options..." 

They couldn't afford anyone else (Joey couldn't afford the employees he already had), and the other 'option' sounded like Henry leaving the company - and Henry? He was the only one breathing some life into the place.

A few days after that, Joey brought alcohol into the studio for the first time - not quite on purpose, only he woke up drunk and it seemed like a good idea at the time. 

Thankfully, Henry was the one to see him first in the morning, and he shuffled him to his desk and gave him water. When Joey broke down and said a great deal of things he never meant to say - all about his failings as an individual and employer, thank god nothing about his perversions - Henry surprised him by, "Everyone starts somewhere, Joey. That's what you said. We just have to have patience, and keep believing."

Joey yet again didn't know if he adored Henry or hated him. He was so sincere. So gullible to have believed Joey for even one second about anything. Worse yet, he still had faith in Joey after that incident. And then after several other similar incidents. He saw (some of) the ways Joey was weak, and seemed to like him just the same. 

It was heartening. And Joey had his own company. His own workers! His own animations! Who could say he was unsuccessful now?

Sure the animations weren’t catching on that well, but in time….

And that was the most exciting thing. Through all this, Joey didn’t lose interest (much), didn’t get distracted by other projects (except for the once where he was gone from the studio for a few weeks working on comics), and everything seemed to be rolling along fairly well.

Joey was absolutely not on the verge of bolting from town with bills unpaid when Henry first drew Bendy.

And Bendy – that was a gold mine. They struck it; popularity soared. Money poured in. For once Joey knew what it was like for his budget to be in the green. Even better, he experienced adoration of the likes he’d never known. Letters poured in fawning over the much-needed smiles the cartoon brought to families. He _had_ to do more.

The studio expanded. New people hired. More planning, more building, more more more.

That meant, Joey realized, that viewers wanted to visit, too. They wanted a behind the scenes look at the magic. So he opened the studio to tours – showing people how it’s all made, start to finish. As it happened, it was most often _families_ that arrived at these tours: Joey worked hard to inspire the next generation. And the kids – he loved seeing the kids. It was a twisted, conflicted kind of love. He adored their simplicity and wonder. Adored showing them the little animations coming to life on screen. And whenever they were with him, his heart thudded and his blood raced. He wanted more. He wanted to be alone with them. Sometimes - sometimes he managed that, bringing them to his office, showing them around.

It started out simple enough. He was satisfied by the furtive pleasure of being alone in his office with them, letting them wander and explore his possessions and ask questions.

Parents often thanked him after, saying this and that about their kids being a handful and they were glad to have Joey give them this experience. Joey admitted he’d always gotten along better with kids than adults.

But soon enough, just having them in his office wasn’t quite enough. He liked to touch their hair – especially when it was blonde and curly, because it reminded him of Mary. He liked to touch their shoulders lightly, guiding them about. He liked to trail his fingers down their backs, too, and sometimes graze a little lower than was strictly appropriate.

The whole thing was horribly teasing, and afterwards, he’d feel horribly guilty (but so hot, so excited).

It wasn’t hurting anybody, he reasoned. He kept his touches mostly innocuous, and they never told him no.

Then a girl came in, petulant and spoiled. Joey couldn't stand the way she stuck out her lip, or tossed back her hair, or stomped about like she owned the place. He slunk behind the desk while she poutily rifled through his books, and he jerked himself imagining sticking his dick into her ungrateful throat.

That wasn’t hurting anybody either. She was none the wiser, since it only took him a few short jerks to climax, and he managed to be quiet about the whole affair (later he cleaned the stains from under his desk).

None of this was strictly speaking _bad_ , he thought. Perverse, yes – he did know that, and perhaps that was why he began to store bottles in his office to drown out that sinister guilt that liked to creep up at random hours. But as a whole, it was harmless. Anyway, in his opinion that petulant girl deserved to be taken down a notch.

With the money his cartoons made, Joey purchased a camera. He told himself its purpose was entirely innocent in nature. What with all the popularity the cartoons had earned, there’d be some benefit in documenting the workday, the going-ons of the studio.

That wasn’t what the camera ended up being used for, but sometimes that’s simply how things went.

And still his hunger couldn't be sated. Just when he reached new heights, he began to crave more. More. More.

He tried arduously to control his impulses, his sick desires. All Joey Drew did was try, try, try. He told himself, as he looked all the pictures he’d taken, that this was it. Enough. That this was where he stopped before he got caught, before he did worse.

But the very next week, a young girl with a blue ribbon walked in and well –

Joey tried. He always tried. But his will was so weak and his desires so great. A new picture was added to his collection. A new giddy little flame added to his chest. A new pound of guilt around his throat.

It felt very much as though life were zooming by before Joey could process it – cartoons spitting out rapid-fire, the studio expanding, new children in and out, and his collection of pictures growing at an alarming rate. His perversion swelling like an ever-starving ever-eating beast.

A panic screamed to stop _stop_ just for a second: he wanted to hit a button that put everything on pause, just to give him time to think about things, to re-assess, re-manage, and correct what had, at some point, gone abysmally wrong.

But life didn’t come with such a button, and alongside the panic was an uncontrollable insatiable fervor.

“Say, what if we started a theme park?” Joey asked, caught up in the rush of the popularity of the last cartoon released.

“A theme park?” Henry looked doubtful.

“Sure! A Bendy theme park. A chance for folks of all ages to get away from life for a bit, just have fun! Maybe even meet their favorite characters, off the screen and in person!”

“I don’t know, Joey. Don’t you think we should hire a new animator? I’m overloaded as it is, and-“

“I’ll start up some drafts. With the money this place could make off rides, we could hire five, ten animators!”

“I don’t know if we-“

Joey clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll see, Henry.”

The theme park was purely an endeavor to give people a break from the darkness of the world. It had nothing to do with the children, though it gave him the giddiest excitement to imagine so many little legs scurrying about through the park.

Shortly after he hired a few folks to build the park, he broke down in his office, feeling as though a myriad of invisible forces were all converging upon him - guilt, bills, lies,  _life_. He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't keep  _being_ this. But how could he _stop_? The studio was earning more money than Joey had ever seen, and he was the owner, the famous man behind it all! He was the wheel keeping everything going. What sort of man looked at that and said, "no, I'm done now?"

He wasn't done. The work was just beginning. So Joey showed up to work the next day with an even bigger grin and an even greater determination (to strangle the anxiety building in his chest). It was soon after that he first formulated the idea of bringing characters to life. Off the screen and into real life.

That was when someone finally hit that pause button – but it wasn’t Joey. He had never had the power to stop himself. 


	24. Susie

Alice Angel was everything to Susie Campbell.

Alice was the first character Susie voiced that she wanted to be. Beautiful, dainty, and just a little dark, if you bothered to look under the surface. Sure, Bendy was known for being the mischievous one. But if that little demon ever started anything, you could bet it was Alice who’d finish it. And she’d do it without a single wrinkle on her outfit.

Oh, Susie slipped into the role like slipping into a dress, and it felt _perfect_.

Her time at the studio was like walking on clouds. It was practically the entire reason she woke up in the morning. She got such a thrill from wearing clothing similar to Alice Angel, and she couldn't help but let some quotes and lines sneak into her daily speech. Alice just had so much confidence and she practically oozed sex appeal. It made Susie feel amazing. Like she could be a woman who knows her business, a woman who could walk all over everybody and look good doing it. It gave her that spark that her thus far inglorious life had so desperately needed.

Sammy Lawrence was the first man she tried her new charms on. He was an easy target, because she saw the way he looked at her. Better yet, he was tall and handsome and when he sang beside her, oh, how it made her blood rush! When he complimented her voice, it was different than all those dirty drunk men that clawed after her in the cruddy establishments she used to sing in. He was a bit frigid, but otherwise gentlemanly, and he certainly knew his business when it came to music.

Sammy had his strange habits, sure: he only ever wore long sleeves no matter the weather; he preferred being alone and shirking his coworkers; he sometimes muttered to himself, or stroked his forearms. His short temper and sardonic attitude warded off many from getting too close. But all these things only drew Susie in. He was strange in a mysterious, alluring sort of way.

Or so she thought.

See, all her flirting and coy looks had him falling to her feet just like she wanted. She had the man wrapped around her finger, and she felt on top of the world. Until he decided to share his little _secret_ with her. Then, well, then she knew better.

He cornered her alone in the Music Department one evening. He pulled his sleeves up and revealed a disgusting array of scars littered across nearly every inch of skin. His eyes were wide and frantic as he confessed _he had done it to himself_. He had _mutilated_ himself - and he admitted it didn’t even stop at his arms: he’d carved the flesh across his back, his shoulders, his torso. He spoke like a complete lunatic, rambling on about how it was his masterpiece, a record of his best musical composition - and how he wanted her voice to be a part of it.

“You’re a freak, Sammy Lawrence, a freak,” she howled at him. “Don’t you come near me!”

After that, Susie made sure to never be alone with him, no way. There was no telling if he might pull a knife on her and do something crazy in the name of art. That experience nearly turned Susie off from voice acting at Joey Drew Studios altogether, but she just couldn't abandon Alice like that. It wasn’t Alice’s fault Sammy had turned out to be insane.

She regrettably still had to put up with working with him, only all his previous charm was gone. He was sour and irritable. Cold as ice to her! Just because she didn’t jump on board with his crazy self-maiming project. Susie just knew he was complaining behind her back to Joey… Trying to get her fired. It made her _burn_.

Alice meant everything to her. She wasn’t going to let Sammy take that away.

He had begged her not to tell anyone about his ‘masterpiece.’ Well, boo to that. She stomped straight to Joey Drew’s office once she realized what Sammy was trying to do. She was going to confess everything he had told her, and Joey would see who really ought to be fired around here.

Susie threw open the door in her rage, “Joey, I have got to bring something about Sammy-“

Behind the desk, Joey jolted so hard he nearly dislodged the child on his lap. “Susie,” he yelped hoarsely.

“Lawrence to your attention-“

“Knock first-“ Joey spluttered.

“This is an urgent matter!” Susie tapped her foot furiously as Joey practically shoved the young girl (undoubtedly from one of his tours - a waste of time, if you asked Susie) off his lap. The girl frowned at Susie.

“I was drawing,” she whined.

Yes, Susie could see the horrid little scribbles that passed for a drawing. “Wonderful, sweetie,” she said like rotten saccharine, “Now let the adults talk, mmkay?”

The girl stuck out her tongue and ran from the room. 

“Susie Campbell, you knock first!” Joey yelled, red-faced and shaking.

His reaction was such that for a moment, she forgot what she had come for, and she blinked in shock. She’d never seen Joey like this before. It was over such a small thing, but he was so riled. It actually scared Susie, which was more startling than anything. “Y-yes, of course.”

He slumped back into his wheelchair and raked fingers through his hair. Susie tried to shake away her unease concerning him - after all, his reaction was the unreasonable one! All she had done was open the door. There was no reason to get so worked up about it.

“What did you need?” Joey snapped.

Right. Susie gathered her wits, smoothed her dress, and promptly shared her terrifying experience about Sammy, putting extra emphasis on how disturbing it was that Joey’s Music Director was a maniac routinely slicing open his own flesh.

She made sure to simper where needed, playing up the helplessness and fright of her situation (because Sammy truly had frightened her, and she was now furious at him for talking behind her back - all bets were off). She expected some sympathy - an apology at the very least! But Joey?

He looked at her with his blue eyes bad-tempered under his brow, and he simply replied,

“Does it interfere with his work here?”

To which she had stuttered and blubbered, aghast to think _that_ was all he cared about. In hindsight, it shouldn't have surprised her one bit, because Joey was a greedy, selfish sort of man.

“I’m not comfortable working beside Sammy any longer. I don’t feel safe!” She emphasized shrilly, to which he answered,

“Then maybe this job isn’t cut out for you.”

Wasn’t cut out for her. Wasn’t cut out for her. She stormed out in a rage. Fine. If she wouldn't get support from Joey Drew, then she’d do just fine managing on her own. She would spend the least amount of time around Sammy Lawrence as possible, and try ten times as hard to get her lines perfect, to prove that the studio needed her (which it should already know it did).

She practiced in the bathroom at work, and at home. When she looked in the mirror, sometimes she saw Alice Angel instead of Susie Campbell (and frankly, she liked being an angel a lot better). Old Susie Campbell, she had been nothing before this role. Now, now she was everything.

The Ink Machine pumped on, a constant rhythm like a heartbeat, and to it, in Susie’s mind, Alice danced and sang. Not even Sammy Lawrence could bring her down. Nobody could.

Then one morning she came into work to find Allison Pendle sitting in the recording booth.

In _Susie’s_ spot.

Speaking _Susie’s_ lines.

Playing _Susie’s_ role.

That. Was. It. Susie beelined straight to Joey’s office (and knocked, damn him), screeching about the injustice of it.

“Ah, did I forget to send that note informing you of the replacement?” Joey rifled around his desk. “I’m sure I wrote one….”

“You _replaced_ me!”

“You’ll find Miss Allison Pendle is a better fit for the role-“

Better fit, her ass. That was Susie’s character - she’d been with Alice Angel from her start! She’d played the role flawlessly!

“What did Sammy say?” Susie snarled. “What did he say to get me fired?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Joey said. “I simply feel that Allison-“

 _Allison_. Susie hated her guts. But no matter what Susie said, Joey wouldn't listen.

“Just leave, won’t you?” He finally said, exasperated.

So fine. Susie left. If that’s what Joey wanted, then he could watch while Alice Angel’s popularity sank (but oh, Alice didn’t deserve that, not one bit).

Susie knew she ought to look for other roles, but Alice was truly who she was now, and nothing else could compare. Joey would see it, sooner or later - he’d realize how badly he needed her talent, and he’d hire her back! But as Susie ruminated away from the studio, her head felt so…. Quiet without the thumping of the machine. Empty. Like a silent scream. She needed to be back, doing what she was best at.

She returned to the studio, even though Joey had said she wasn’t welcome back. Well, she didn’t care one lick about his opinion. Her intention was simply to have a glimpse at Allison’s voice acting (talent wouldn't be the right word).

Turns out, Allison failed to do the role half as competently as Susie. She was no angel. Just a dirty girl scrambling to capture Alice’s nuances as a character both fiery and demure. She didn’t understand Alice at all, despite the similarity of their names (which irked Susie to no end).

What happened next Susie had to admit was a mistake, but… it wasn’t as if she planned it, and even someone as collected as Alice sometimes lost control. Well, regardless, James, Charly, and Sammy had to peel apart Allison and Susie while Susie screeched about her indignities and tried to yank out Allison’s hair.

After that, Susie was banned from entering the studio. But something like that wasn’t going to stop her. It wouldn't stop Alice, not when she really wanted something. And the studio needed her; they just didn’t understand!

So one afternoon, just like any other, Susie slipped on a short dress that made her feel really connected with Alice, and she sashayed back down to the studio (with its rhythmic thumping and the band swinging). This time, she’d have to be real careful. Joey found her last time, and yelled her out of the studio. She didn’t want to be found this time, oh no. She wasn’t going to cause any trouble. She just wanted to sidle up near the recording studio, hear that band playing, and sway and dance in the dark like she was truly alive.

The thought tickled so pleasantly. Susie attached a little white bow to her dress, and twirled in the mirror. So almost perfect. She brushed back her hair, trying to tame it to look closer to Alice’s. How nice it would look, to have two little horns and a halo…. But she made do.

Once she was presentable enough, off she went, walking to the studio, an extra spring in her step. She could almost, almost convince herself that she still worked at the studio, that she was merely coming into work late, and that this very afternoon, she’d be recording Alice’s next lines!

The exhilaration of the thought carried her to the studio door, which she breezed through and snicked shut behind her.

As she checked the hallways cautiously, something really strange struck her. She swore the studio looked sketched. Like something right out of the Bendy cartoons themselves. The thought gave her a flutter of a laugh. Now, wouldn't that be fun?

Maybe it had just been too long since she was last in the studio. Whatever the reason, it made her feel absolutely alive, like she was Alice Angel herself. Not just the voice, no, but the angel, set on a cartoonish stage. The heartbeat of the machine guided her deeper into the studio. To the band, she thought. She was determined to enjoy herself today, rather than getting upset over Alli- no, don’t even think of her. Today was about Alice Angel. Today was about her.

It was pure luck that she didn’t come across a single person in her foray into the studio, and she was just congratulating herself on this miracle when she realized there was something funny going on. See, Susie knew this studio - knew it even better than some of those that had been here from its conception. Which meant that of course she knew her way to the recording studio. Only, she followed the very same path this time and ended up somewhere very different.

Susie paused, flummoxed. There were few things so disconcerting as getting lost in an area you know extraordinarily well. It wasn’t as if the Music Department was even that far from the front door!

Susie turned around, tried to retrace her steps to see if she had, in her day-dreaming, taken a wrong turn. But she ended up in a third hallway she didn’t recognize whatsoever.

Susie spun around again, and almost immediately yelped and jumped back.

Bendy was standing there.

 _Bendy_. She blinked a few times as if it was an illusion that would vanish, but it didn’t. Bendy, looking identical to the one in the cartoons.

A man in a costume? No - how could it be? He barely came up to her belly-button, and she saw no seams, no zippers-

An animatronic?

“Holy moly, you’re Alice Angel,” he said, and although the Bendy of the cartoons had never had a voice actor, this one sounded just as Susie might have imagined the little demon.

A tail swished at his heels, and his expression morphed to eagerness; everything looked so fluid, so very different from the stiff movements of a robot. Susie couldn't wrap her mind around this thing. She gave a short, quick laugh, because yes, she was Alice and here was Bendy.

“Quick,” Bendy said, “Say somethin’ Alice-y. See, I came across another Alice not too long ago, and she didn’t sound right at all.”

Perhaps Betrum had figured out how to make a more realistic robot? That said, its words finally caught up to her. Another Alice. No doubt who that was. Susie wasn’t sure if this thing was capable of understanding complex speech, but she retorted, affronted, “You met Allison. She _isn’t_ Alice Angel. She’s a fake Joey hired to drawl through some lines.”

“Wow, you got her voice!” Yipping, Bendy jumped around. “That means you’re the real thing, huh! You got her outfit, her voice - the hair’s all right-“

Susie patted her hair, both embarrassed and frustrated. It was true that she could never get her hair to look like Alice’s, no matter what she did. Still, his compliments were nice… Close to the real thing, he’d said. Coming from something that looked identical to the Bendy on the screen, that was saying something. “I’m the one who should really have the role,” she sniffed.

Bendy paused. “Hey, then why’d they replace ya?”

“Joey _apparently_ felt Allison was a 'better fit.'” But why even waste time talking to this weird mascot? She never liked the character Bendy much, and she liked this little Bendy avatar Joey had made even less. Something about him creeped her out. Susie was just contemplating hunting for the recording studio again when Bendy balled up his fists and replied,

“Oh, Joey. Boy, I hate that guy!” This is where his programming (or whatever it was running this thing) fell short, because despite his words, Bendy wouldn't stop grinning and he didn’t sound entirely sincere. “He’s just a scummy liar,” Bendy continued cheerily. “Takin’ credit for what everyone else does.”

Wow. That didn’t seem like something Joey would ask to have programmed. In fact, this creature, despite having Bendy’s perfect appearance, didn’t have the right personality for Bendy at all. Susie would know. Despite how much she disliked the character, it was inevitable she got to know him almost as well as Alice. “He _is_ a scummy liar,” Susie agreed cooly. “But I’ve got other places to be… Bendy.” That felt strange to say.

“Oh, not yet,” Bendy clasped his hands behind his back. “First, you gotta sing for me. There ain’t no Alice Angel without her singin’ voice, I know that.”

“I don’t think so.” She didn’t have to prove her talent to some robot (she ignored how little it seemed like a robot because she couldn't otherwise explain the thing). “Just point me in the direction of the recording studio, mmkay?”

“I don’t think Alice should be givin’ Bendy orders.”

“I don’t think I have to listen to anything you say.”

To her shock, Bendy laughed. “I love it! Just like our friendship-rivalry in the ‘toons!”

Susie wasn’t so sure about that, though it did give her a thrill to be called Alice. “All right,” she said. Might as well have fun while she was here. “I’ll sing you a tune, if you can get me somewhere we can’t be overheard.” Might as well play along with the childish theme, too, since it amused him so much (and she kinda liked it too). She knelt to his level and gave him a coy wink. “See, Alice isn’t supposed to be in the studio today. She’s being a naughty angel, sneaking in… and if anyone catches her…” Susie pouted, “oh, they would be so mean to her.”

Bendy’s eyes went big and oval. “Oooh, yes.” A positively devilish look crossed his face - something that wouldn't ever be seen in the cartoons. “Don’t you worry, Alice, I can get us somewhere ain’t nobody gonna hear ya sing.”

“Wonderful.” Susie straightened.

“Sure thing, right-o,” he continued, giggling, his tail curling up on itself. “Just gimme a few moments t’make the place….”

To make…?

“Done!” Bendy grabbed her hand - his touch was chilling and strong. Very  _real_ , though not like any human or animal she'd encountered. 

She had no time to dwell on it before he towed her through a door (had that door always been there?) and into a huge room. The moment they stepped in, a ring of lights flared to life on the ceiling. They illuminated a room which was clearly designed for Alice Angel and nobody else. At the far side, an elevated stage; the nearest side, several chairs indicating where an audience out to go. 

"Sent From Above" was written in curly writing above the stage, which was decorated with big painted wood clouds. Beautiful artwork was painted across the walls around the stage - the perfect set that looked like heaven. It was just waiting for its angel. It even had a microphone on the stage, beckoning.

Susie touched the bowtie on her dress. 

"Well?" Bendy said. "Ain't'cha gonna sing? How do I reeeaally know you're Alice if ya can't sing."

Oh, she could sing. "Nobody can hear me sing here?" She asked. 

"Pinkie promise."

All of this was weird. Too coincidental, too generous to her. Life was rarely generous to Susie Campbell. She cast a side-glance at the Bendy beside her. Perhaps she shouldn't ruin this for herself. She did want to sing - she could feel the urge bubbling up in her chest, and some rhythm had started to play in her head, keeping time to the distant mumbling chug of the Ink Machine. 

She deserved to enjoy herself, just for a bit.

So Susie took a deep breath and stepped on the stage.

“I’m Alice Angel,” she whispered to herself. She looked out into the room. The only one in the audience was Bendy, but she could imagine it was full of star-struck gentlemen and ladies.

“You’re Alice Angel,” Bendy chirruped.

Yes. She fingered the fringe of her dress, which was short enough to sometimes make her self-conscious. But Alice wasn’t self-conscious. When she stepped on the stage, she was a _star_.

Susie stood taller, prouder. A confidence familiar smirk graced her lips. 

Alice Angel began to sing.


	25. Allison

Henry was gone.

Allison clapped her hands over her mouth and doubled over in horror, because _Henry was gone_. The floorboards had opened like an abyss and dragged him down into it, leaving a cold void that Allison was too terrified to look at properly. And Henry - oh god, he was dead, he had to be dead.

There was no way that little monster had left him alive. It churned in her stomach to think of Henry’s body, crammed somewhere in the walls or the floors, bloated with ink and floating lifelessly under the boards. She retched.

“The ink-“ someone gasped.

Her eyes flew open.

“It’s-“

The others were backing away. 

She could see why. Ink was overflowing from the hole Henry had been yanked into. Glistening black, it slithered nearer in sinuous, unnatural pathways. Those tendrils that struck the wall began to climb.

“Get - run, run!” Allison shrieked, backpedaling. Most obeyed and ran out the door. Some were frozen, eyes fixated on the advancing ink which was swiftly darkening the room. Allison howled at them, and still they didn’t move. She didn’t want to get any closer but she’d never forgive herself if she left them.

She splashed through puddles to reach them, and then grabbed fabric, tugging, “let’s get out of here!”

The floorboards groaned; they were swollen and fat with the dark goo. 

“Come on-“ Those people lingering were snapped from their daze. Allison turned, ink splashed, and there was a final cracking noise that made her heart swoop into her throat. “ _No_ -“

The ink-soaked floor caved beneath her feet. She fell. Her legs vanished in the abyss; her torso thudded like a limp animal on the splintered boards remaining, and she realized instantly she was going to get sucked down into the darkness.

Then strong hands seized her arm, nearly twisting it from its socket. 

Allison dangled, half in the ink, half out, gasping. “Oh - oh my God-“ She twisted like a fish on a line (her shoulder burned). The ink was thick and cold, hideously clinging to her lower half in ways that made her feel disturbingly violated. 

“Hang on-“ 

She contorted until she saw her rescuer. Thomas, it was Thomas - his brows were set in a hard line, his teeth gritted. 

“Thank you-“ she gasped.

He towed her step by step out. Her hip struck the floorboards hard and smarted, but there was no time to dwell. As she was scrambling up, someone weakly cried,

“Wait-“

“Let’s go-“ Thomas snarled, the room getting smaller and smaller as it flooded.

“Wait-“ Allison echoed.

Joey Drew’s frail form was clawing at the slippery floor, most of his body submerged, and only his shoulders, head, and arms above the surface.

“Help- help me-“ he pleaded, crystal blue eyes round behind broken glasses. “Allison, Thomas, please-“

“We leave or we die,” Thomas growled at her.

She ripped from his clutches. Her feet slipped over the black floor as she approached the stranded studio owner. The room was shaking, lurching, and twice she nearly fell.

“Yes, yes-“ Joey reached out, spindly fingers shaking, “Allison, you’re nearly here-“

“Allison!” Thomas yelled behind her. “Leave him!”

“Shut up!” Joey yowled. “Allison, you’re - you’re - yes - perfect-“ His outstretched fingers met hers. His grip was tight despite his apparent frailty, and his fingers cold.

Allison tugged; her feet slipped. The ink was rising, swallowing her ankles, building up her calves.

“Kick,” she yelled at Joey, “kick your legs, try harder!”

She heaved again, and again her feet slid, nearly unbalancing her. Oh god, he was going to drag her right into the inky pit - but she couldn't let go of him, not with his constricting grip.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” Joey hissed.

“I - let go- Joey, let go!“

Something seized her free hand; she swung her gaze back. Thomas. She could have cried in relief. He was hanging onto her, and he put his entire back into pulling - Allison renewed her own efforts, and Joey flailed desperately.

Finally the tides turned. She stepped towards the exit.

They had to do this. They had to, or they’d all be yanked into that pit. Allison threw all her strength into it, and at last, at last, they all collapsed past the exit. Still the ink rose, spilling from the floor, spreading further and further and further, as if to devour the entire studio.

Allison forced herself back onto aching, black-stained legs.

She didn’t know where to go, but they needed to go somewhere. They needed to run.

All the other band members were now either consumed by ink or vanished into the depths of the studio, so she had nothing and nobody to follow - no way to determine which way was safe.

But there was also no time to contemplate a route. Allison picked one at random, and dragged Joey and Thomas behind her as she went (Thomas half-carried Joey, who was muttering inanities). 

“Shut up,” Allison snapped at him, unable to handle his insane ramblings while her heart hammered and her panic rose. She picked a direction and ran. 

The studio was changed. Ink dripped from sodden corners, else spilled down the walls or bubbled up from the floor. Hallways twisted and wound in unnatural, impossible ways, else tilted sideways and led in circles. As she fled, Allison once glimpsed a staircase, unattached to any floor, ceiling, or wall, that led out into darkness and disappeared. Pipes pushed out of the walls like maggots from dead flesh. Boards in the floors, ceiling, and walls were crooked and jammed together in nonsensical, sometimes overlapping ways, and in between the cracks… in between the cracks, there was nothing.

Allison had never truly understood the meaning of nothing before, she realized now. Nothing was an immense, empty hollowness that was felt in her chest and in her bones. It filled her with an indescribable dread. She sensed that if she were to reach into that abyss, it would suck her in. It would consume her whole and there would be no time, no space, just infinite perpetual nothing. Forever.

Allison darted past every spot like an insect fleeing a bird of prey. She didn’t want to consider what failure might mean for them.

“Keep moving,” she urged Joey and Thomas.

Some turns she took were mistakes. Some turns led her into dead ends, or voids, or rooms flooded with ink. She’d wheel back around and go running in another direction, another, another.

Her head played on repeat a strange litany of _Henry’s dead. Wally’s dead. Everyone is dead. I’m going to die._

“Allison,” Joey gasped, panting. “Allison, stop-“

“We have to keep moving!”

“Stop, just-“

“Allison-“ Thomas interjected sharply, and yanked on her arm.

The three of them halted. Joey leaned heavily against Thomas, heaving.

“Wh-what?” Allison said.

“Look where we are,” Thomas replied.

Allison looked. The studio… was normal.

No eerie cracks in the walls, no cartoonish floorboards, no nonsensical and bizarre architecture. This was a part of the studio yet untouched by that demon and his ink. It was, Allison realized, the closest thing to safe they had.

“Christ,” Joey wheezed.

Allison tried to catch her breath as she looked around the area. It was like a warehouse… one of the many storage areas in the studio, presumably, although not one she had ever been to. The ceiling yawned up high above them, nearly reached by many towering racks that were piled high with junk and equipment. The place was creepy, with huge Alice Angel faces, crates and barrels, a giant potentially animatronic Bendy arm that had be at least 25 feet long… there were deformed carousal horses, trash cans with Bendy heads, and little toys and devices spilling their wired guts onto the shelves. She shuddered, the wires reminding her of the pipes of the Ink Machine… which in turn made her aware of the ink still gripping her legs.

It sickened her. Though she knew it wasn’t Bendy, that it couldn't be him (although her idea of what was or was not possible was morphing so rapidly), it still felt invasive. Sticky and wet at best. 

Nearly in tears, she started swatting at her legs, frantically brushing off the ink. Then it stuck to her hands, between her fingers - she couldn't get the stuff off, it just spread, and stained and -

“Allison-“ Thomas was suddenly there, a warm hand on her shoulder. 

“I can’t get it off- Tom, I can’t get it off-“

“Stop, stop, you’re hurting yourself-“ 

Her fingernails were scraping at her skin, but it was the only way, otherwise, otherwise-

“ _Allison_.” He grabbed her hands, forced them away from her own flesh.

For half a second, she merely shook, spattered with ink and terrified. Then something snapped. She lunged into his arms. Tears poured forth. “Ohgod, ohgod Thomas what’s happening-“

He had no response. 

“Henry-Henry, and Wally, and-“ She thought of the bodies that had fallen into the abyss. Fresh tears welled; her body shook. She wouldn't forget their looks of terror for as long as she lived. The looks of people about to die, and fully knowing it. 

“Wally?” Thomas breathed, shock in his voice. “Wally, too?”

She nodded piteously, tears staining his shirt and her words punctuated with hiccups. “God, Thomas, I saw his body. I - I saw what that demon did to him.” Her stomach roiled. Very vivid images leapt to mind, not just of Wally’s body. Her tongue touched her teeth; she warred over whether to mention it. The words fell out before she could decide, “And - and they were right next to him, Thomas. They were -“ her throat tightened.

“Shh…”

“They were _doing it._ ”

Thomas’ arms stiffed. 

“S-Sammy and Bendy-“ 

Thomas jerked away from her.

“Wh-while Wally was just - just bleeding there-“

“They were…?” Thomas paused, not wanting to say it himself, and Allison weakly nodded. 

Thomas swore. 

With no one to hold on to, Allison wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed. The ink still clung, chilly and ominious, to her skirt and legs and thighs, but she didn’t want to think about it anymore; she wouldn't scratch herself to get it off, she just… wanted quiet. Wanted peace. Wanted none of this to happen. 

So immersed in her tears, she didn’t notice Thomas stalk over to Joey. 

Then she heard a thud and a yelp, and she whipped her head up. 

Thomas had Joey pinned against the wall. “The _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

“W-wait now-“ Joey began.

“Bringing a fucking demon to the studio-“

“All of this can be explained-“

“People are dying, Joey! How do you answer for that?!”

“Thomas, stop,” Allison uttered, so weakly it went unheard. She didn’t want more violence,not even aimed at Joey. 

“It’s his fault!” Thomas yelled.

“Don’t be ridiculous - if you think for one second I _wanted_ this to happen-“

“It was one of your stupid schemes-“

“ _Stop_ -“ Allison groaned.

“I had no way to imagine this could be the result! Betrum’s little robots - they could hardly simulate the true spirit of the characters! They were cheap imitations! And those costumes - hah. You’ve seen them. We needed something more real, Thomas. My idea was brilliant, but something entirely out of my control-“

Thomas interrupted flatly, “You don’t even feel bad that your friend - or anyone else - is dead. All you care about is defending-“

“STOP IT!” Allison shrieked, her fists shaking at her sides. “Both of you, _shut up_!” She spun to Joey, “You can answer for what you’ve done after all this is over-“ Joey’s face fell. “But this - this thing with the demon - it’s got to stop now. We have to stop anyone else from dying. Thomas, _let go of him!”_

Something in her tone had Thomas releasing Joey immediately. The engineer yanked a cigarette from his jacket with trembling hands, and he jammed it between his teeth. 

Joey straightened his clothes. “You should know that Bendy hasn’t killed Henry.”

“Oh yeah?” Thomas chewed the end of his cigarette. “How ya know that?”

“The devil’s fond of him. He wouldn't kill-“

“So your friend is getting tortured, and you’re just fine-“

“Thomas, stop!”

The engineer sucked furiously at his cigarette but fell silent.

Allison let herself have some hope that perhaps Henry wasn’t dead. That if they found a way to destroy Bendy, they might save him… and save everyone else. “Joey, what do you know about Bendy? What can we use against him?”

“Ah,” Joey said. “Well, that’s a fine question.”

 

 

 

Joey said a lot, in all kinds of flowery language, but as Allison paced, mulling over his words, she found very little to actually use. The most promising thing he’d mentioned was something she’d already known - Bendy’s weakness to water.

Allison reached the haunted house and turned again. She was walking in circles, while Joey sat on his barrel and muttered quietly to himself. Thomas was piling equipment at all the entrances and inventorying bacon soup wherever he found it. Allison had tried to tell him that no amount of barricading was likely to keep the ink demon out, but she sensed that he needed this to feel useful. The stress of just sitting around would kill him - he needed to be moving, doing things. So she let him arrange whatever he liked while she thought.

Joey had re-iterated that Bendy had a fondness for Henry, too.

Allison clenched her fists in her skirt. She thought at first he was dead. But her heart wanted to believe he was still alive. That Bendy wasn’t hurting him too badly, if so.

Unfortunately, she didn’t think anything about Bendy’s fondness of Henry would help them out much at this point.

Joey mentioned Bendy had a great love for the cartoons - that didn’t surprise her, given Bendy’s apparent desire to create his own episodes with real live people. But that, too, had little use here. Nothing she could think of yet.

“But what upsets him? What hurts him?” She had asked hopefully.

Joey had said a great deal of bullshit that ultimately meant “I don’t know,” but deep in his eyes she had seen an inextricable, primal fear. The same fear that had possessed them all.

Allison reached Thomas’ blockade. Thomas had paused, staring at the malformed carousal horse stacked onto a pile of other junk.

Allison felt a twinge of guilt, amidst all the other emotions swamping her. Thomas had been so supportive, and she’d barely given a moment to ask after him… “Thomas?” She stepped nearer. “Are you okay?” What a silly question in this place.

Thomas shook his head. “Just… keep thinking about something.”

“What is it?” Allison asked.

“Don’t know. Might be nothing.”

“Does it have to do with Bendy?”

Thomas snatched a gutted toy from the pile and toyed with the fabric edges. “Maybe. It’s just - something Wally was asking about this morning. He was real freaked out, and… after what you said, I keep wondering if he hadn’t seen Bendy.”

Allison blinked.How could she have forgotten? This morning the janitor had been rambling on and on about Bendy, in real life, running through the studio. She’d pushed it off as a _prank._ He’d met that demon, and she called it a prank… Allison ran her fingers through her hair. “He _did_ see Bendy this morning. He - he was panicking about it; I hadn’t realized…”

Thomas stared at her, good and long. Then, ponderously, “He asked about the machine. Didn’t think anything anything of it. Uh, about - about its function?” Thomas pressed his teeth lightly to the end of his cigarette as he thought. Then, “I sent him to get the blueprints for the thing.”

“Maybe he knew something.” Allison recalled how the pipes of the Ink Machine had moved out of the way at Bendy’s bidding. How its infernal thudding had been pumping in the hallways perpetually. Bendy had immense control over the studio, and immense control over everything in it. The Ink Machine had its spidery grip strewn throughout the studio - Allison knew that easily, because it was leaking left and right, and pumping and chugging no matter where you walked. “Is there a connection between the machine and Bendy?” She directed this question to Joey.

“Of course. Didn’t I tell you two that?”

At their mutual looks, he hurried on, “the machine is the marvel that brought him to life in the first place.”

“And you didn’t feel that was useful to bring up originally?”

“I doubt there’s a surviving connection…” Joey hedged. “We can defeat him without worrying about the machine, I’m sure.”

“No, I think this is important.”

“He must’ve died just before or after getting those blueprints,” Thomas ruminated. “Christ, I sent him to his death.”

“Stop. You can’t think like that.” Allison took to her pacing again, this time in small, tight circles. She was having her own guilt, about what she could have done better, about what ways she had failed, but she knew those thoughts were unreasonable. There is nothing any of them could have done. Except for Joey, probably, as he could have not done all this in the first place.

All they could do now was try to prevent further deaths. She quavered to imagine the large number of people likely still within Bendy’s grasp. She quavered to imagine that his reach would continue to extend until the entire studio was consumed and nobody could escape. The ink spreading across the room earlier seemed to indicate that was the ultimate conclusion to this. They couldn't allow that to happen. Couldn't let despair or guilt stop them.

Her brain whirred again and again through everything they knew.

Water didn’t defeat him. Only delayed him. It hadn’t even hurt him in the long term - only for a short period of time, as he’d returned looking entirely fine within an hour. But it was a weakness, something to work with. And the machine… the machine whose blueprints Wally was looking for…

Allison stopped. “I have an idea.” She turned to Joey. “How close is the main water line to the Ink Machine?”


	26. Sammy

Henry was disgusting.

Sammy sat hunched over, his chin resting on arms contemptuously crossed over a music stand.

Henry was laying on the floor in a puddle of ink and spilled bacon soup. Cum was still spotted across his backside, as the animator hadn’t had the decency to pull up his pants or clean himself off. Or, even, move at all. Sammy felt intense revulsion and hatred just by looking at him. His disgust was made worse by knowing the fluid dribbling to the floor came from himself. What a horrible experience.

Sammy hated what he had done, but… it had made Bendy happy. For that, he would do it again, even as much as he shied from the idea. He only wished that Bendy might grasp the severity of what Sammy had done for him… Only wished Bendy might recognize his actions, and perhaps…

No. Bendy owed him nothing. The demon was far above him, and it was not Sammy’s place to wish he might be merciful enough to give Sammy some singular, undivided attention… Sammy’s thoughts of such a blessing were so pleasantly mixed between sex dark and arousing, and torture intimate and aching - perhaps carving words into Sammy’s flesh… how much it would mean to him, for his Lord to add to the masterpiece already decorating his skin.

Henry twitched.

Sammy snapped from his daydream. Henry didn’t move again.

Sammy lowered his head.

Bendy had not wished to give him that individual attention. After Henry’s rape, Bendy occupied himself with trying to play patty-cake with Henry’s responsive body. He had been in the middle of this task when he went stock still, eyes oval, as if he had just realized something remarkable.

“What is it, my Lord?” Sammy had crawled nearer, hopeful.

“Someone’s come a-visiting,” Bendy had replied, which was less than informative.

“Visiting…?” Sammy looked to the recording studio’s door, but - the door was nonfunctional now; there was no getting out or in the room without Bendy’s permission.

“Mhmm. Our Alice, if I ain’t mistaken.”

Sammy couldn't discern what he meant, but Bendy merely gave him the instruction to look after Henry, and then he left.

So here Sammy was, looking after Henry. Much as he’d rather see him dead.

Sighing, Sammy watched as Henry moved again: Henry’s fingers torpidly groped at his waistband. It was a pathetic thing to witness. Henry finally tugged up his boxers and pants all the way up in a series of pitifully weak and slow pulls. At the end of the ordeal, his boxers were sticking up out of his waistband in several places, and crumpled up under his trousers in a very noticeable and messy fashion. This task done, Henry curled onto his side and yet again went still.

Sammy scowled.

Henry didn’t _need_ watching. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime fast. Sammy would have been better served going with Bendy… assisting the demon in anything he might require. Licking the ground at his feet, if he so desired - the thought did give Sammy a pleasant shiver. He wanted badly to prostrate himself before the demon. Wanted even more to bow before him, and offer up his forearms. Even better - offer up his entire body for Bendy’s use and pleasure. The memory of Bendy’s teeth digging into his skin had Sammy shivering again.

He craved that…

Another peek at Henry. The animator was still doing nothing. Certainly not looking his way.

Sammy licked his lips. Part of him didn’t want to hurt himself now, not without Bendy’s approval and order. But the demon was busy with something else: there was no telling when he might return, and Sammy… Sammy ached for any facsimile of his attention, however pale it would be in comparison.

He had to. Perhaps when his Lord would return, the blood would entice him, anyway… yes, he’d surely like that. Sammy thought fondly of Bendy’s reaction to his blood the first time around, and then his decision was made.

With hands shaking from eagerness, Sammy slowly drew up his sleeve, little by little, teasing himself with the sight of the bandage. Finally his sleeve was bunched in ringlets over his bicep, and the entire bandage was visible, pristine white apart from a few droplets of ink.

Sammy took a shaky breath. He checked Henry again - no movement. Back to the task at hand.

His fingers tugged at the medical tape, peeling each little tab off. Then he delicately grasped the bandages. These he peeled away gently to reveal his wounds.

His teeth lightly pressed into his bottom lip. He had to restrain a groan at the sight.

The scabs were deep red, nearly black, and the bites were deep enough to still look sunken-in, even after scabbing up. There was thick purplish bruising all around the bite wounds. Bendy had really, really hurt him. Even now it throbbed, and Sammy had done nothing to exacerbate the wound. Yet.

Sammy steadied his breath. Check Henry. Nothing. Good.

His thumb grazed his flesh - not over the wounds themselves, but the swollen bruised mess around it. Even that stung hot and fresh, and he winced, wondering if he’d have the willpower to continue.

None of this was fresh blood, though. If he wanted to entice Bendy… (No, no, Bendy would do as he liked; it wasn’t Sammy’s place to try to sway him…) But perhaps Bendy would _like_ fresh blood. He did have such a fondness for it. Sammy would simply make the option available, and if Bendy should choose to take it…

Another furtive glance at Henry. A burst of superiority and hatred. Pathetic, laying there doing nothing still. Did nothing to earn Bendy’s attention. Back to his arm.

His shaking fingers hovered over the wound. He wondered, momentarily, if he could really open such a sore and tender wound. The light cuts he had decorated his body with were so much less painful… just clean surface wounds. What Bendy had done to him… that was so much worse than anything Sammy had ever done to himself. So much better… Sammy never could have done it on his own.

“My Lord,” Sammy breathed, hovering without touching. “My Lord, I long for you to ruin me…”

Hesitation.

This was going to hurt.

But it was for him.

Sammy dug his nails in _hard_.

The agony was fire up his arm; he hunched double, gasping - _no! Keep your nails in, scratch, scratch it open -_ he tried: he scraped his long musician’s nails under the scabs, aching for the pain Bendy would bring him - but not even half a second later, he ripped his hand away, whimpering, blood under his fingernails.  
He couldn’t do it… couldn't hurt himself like Bendy could, not without self-preservation instinct kicking in.

Sammy looked hatefully at the small blood he’d drawn, having ripped up only four small edges of the scab. He splayed his hand, and was considering a second attempt at scouring when he realized he was being watched.

Sammy looked up.

Henry had managed to turn himself around. Sammy didn’t even want to look at him. He had disliked Henry _before_ of course, but after that horrendous experience with him… Sammy felt uncomfortable just acknowledging him, now. Especially because he looked… just so much worse than usual. His clothes all rumpled, his eyes bloodshot and exhausted, his expression so lost. He didn’t even ask what Sammy was doing. Didn’t ask anything. There was a flare of something that might be guilt before it was buried by annoyance. Henry needed to stop being so pathetic.

“He likes blood.” Sammy explained anyway. “I’m more than happy to provide it,” he added, a touch of pride in his voice. That was something Henry would never do - willingly harm himself for the demon.

With a proper audience now watching, Sammy thought he might be able to do it better this time. Yes, he could. He would. For Bendy. Sammy kept firm eye contact with Henry. Spite would drive him forward, along with his loyalty (and the sickly sweet excitement of hurting himself, the same excitement and ache that he always chased after). So he took a breath, and drove his fingernails into the wound.

His face contorted, a pained snarl ripped from his throat, but his determination prevailed as he raked along the bumpy ridges of scabs and teeth marks.

Now - oh, now blood was bubbling up in many a place. Sammy smiled, pleased to prove the extent of his loyalty.

Henry’s eyes turned to the floor. He wasn’t even going to acknowledge that? Wasn’t going to express any emotion at all in response?

"I anticipate his return..."

No response from Henry.

“I pray he accepts my offering…” Sammy trailed off, touching the dripping blood with his fingertips. The words were partly to goad Henry, but as he spoke them, they rang absolutely true. The sight of blood arrested Sammy’s attention. He swirled some on his bruised skin, nearly hypnotized. He did hope Bendy would find this preferable to harassing Henry. Sammy didn’t expect Bendy to intentionally kill Henry, but… the Music Director would settle for Bendy giving the animator less attention.

Sammy was just considering writing Bendy on his arm in blood when Henry made a noise. Something soft, startled.

 _Finally_. Sammy looked up to gloat more, only to realize Henry wasn’t looking at him.

He was looking at the room around them.

The room was… changing.

That alone wasn’t initially strange - at this point, Sammy embraced that his Lord warped the world around him; flooding rooms with ink, changing all the objects within them to better suit him. But that - that is where this puzzled and concerned Sammy, because the recording studio had already been wholly Bendy’s, something eldritch and something cartoon and yet not quite either. And now it was changing back.

Ink was leeching out of the walls, leaving behind tired-looking boards which sagged as if they had aged a hundred years. The same was done with the instruments, which once looked quite new (then for a time, looked quite cartoonish), and now were slowly bleeding into tired, worn wood and loose strings and ruined brass, as if the touch of Bendy’s ink had corrupted and degraded them.

There was a sick-sounding groaning, metal screeching, then the room lurched and thudded down; Sammy completely overturned from his chair, and music stands crashed down in a piercing cacophony.

When Sammy slowly got up, the room was… normal. Tired, yet, and in some places, broken or ruined, but… otherwise, normal.

Even the black abyss that had occupied one wall was now gone, replaced entirely. The door, too, albeit crooked on its hinges, now showed a hallway through its crack.

All this gave Sammy a very, very bad feeling. Not the sort of dread Bendy’s presence and powers gave him; not a dread filled with awe and devotion and slavish curiosity. This was a dread cold in the pit of his stomach, a dread that made him think there was a reason Bendy’s influence was gone, and it wasn’t a good reason at all.

“What…?” Henry half-sat up, leaning heavily on his arms. Something like hope was dawning in his otherwise defeated eyes.

“Shut up,” Sammy said, taut as a bowstring. If something happened to him - If he -

“Is Bendy gone?” Henry murmured.

“ _No_.”

But Henry wasn’t wiping that look off his face. Snarling, Sammy spent two seconds to drive his shoe straight into Henry’s ribs. He didn’t linger to see Henry curl up gasping.

He had to find Bendy.


	27. Allison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll give the same note I had on chapter 5:
> 
> I started writing this story prior to the remastered BATIM. For that reason, the studio is a mix between the old and remastered versions. As much as I love the Ink Machine being on chains, and able to be raised and lowered, the Ink Machine in this story is grounded and stays in one place (for the most part...). Otherwise, I'll be trying to follow the remastered designs, though the layout is somewhat changed to suit the story

The last thing Allison wanted to do was return to the sections of the studio dominated by Bendy. But if they wanted to reach the Ink Machine, they had no choice.

“There’s a water pipe in the wall right next to the thing, sure,” Thomas told her. “But we’re gonna need something to get through the wall, and-“

“But if we do…?” Allison said.

Thomas raked his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. I mean, yeah. Turn off the machine, then turn off the water pressure. Connect the intake tube of the machine to the water line…. Turn both back on… yeah. The ink machine runs on a loop - just keeps processing the same ink over and over. If we feed water in from one end, and leave the loop open-” Thomas waved his hand. “Just dumps all the ink out, and you got water flooding the machine.”

“So it’s possible. I don’t think he’ll be able to control the studio if there’s no ink in the walls.”

“Great,” Joey chirped. “That sounds great! If you two-“

“It’s not that easy,” Thomas stressed. “It’s gonna take time, and - we gotta bust through the wall in the first place. Need tools. Need Bendy to not find us,” he added darkly.

“Okay. Where can we find the tools you need?”

Thomas shook his head in bewilderment. “Maybe we should stay here-“

“Thomas, this place might be safe now, but it’s not going to stay that way-“ Allison looked sadly at the barricades Thomas had set up at all the entrances but the first. “Nothing’s going to keep him out once he claims this room.”

“I agree with Allison,” Joey added. “No other way than forward.”

“And what part of this mission are _you_ doing?” Thomas replied snidely.

“What part!” Joey spread his arms. “Well, I’ll be right there along with you two! Allison here - she saved my life, and I trust her to know how we ought to proceed from here."

“Really,” Thomas said; Allison shared his cynicism.

“The only thing, of course, is that we’ll need to stop by my office to get my wheelchair, first,” Joey added.

Ah. There it was. Joey’s office was nowhere near the Ink Machine, and she doubted it was anywhere near Wally’s supply closet, either. Joey was leading to the idea that it was best for all of them if he was left behind.

“You get around on a cane well enough,” Allison remarked. “And we’ll need all the hands we can get.”

“Well, yes,” Joey tugged at his collar and smiled faintly. “But you see, I don’t have my cane either-“

Allison grabbed one of the carousal horses. Three stomps had the wooden pole splintering off the horse; another two had it rip free entirely. She shoved the pole into Joey’s hands.

“A cane,” she said.

“Ah,” Joey stared at it. “Um.”

“We’re glad to have you helping us,” Allison added.

Joey gripped the quasi-cane uncertainty. “I-I can’t run if needed-“

Thomas’ expression said he thought they’d be all better off that way, and Allison interjected, “Then let’s make sure we don’t need to run for any reason, right?”

Joey cleared his throat. “Ah, yes.”

She didn’t like Joey any more than anybody else, but in this nightmare of a studio, they needed every single person they could get. If Bendy found them….

She shuddered, vivid pictures of Wally’s brain matter splattered across the floor arising from her memory. There was so little chance that even one more person would be any more effective fighting the demon, especially one so cowardly as Joey. But if it could help, even in the slightest way…

Allison turned to Thomas, swallowing her nausea. She couldn’t dwell on these things, or she’d fall apart.“Do you know how to find tools? Or anything else we might need?”

Thomas’ eyebrows were high on his forehead; a small disbelieving smile on his face. “A cane,” he laughed quietly.

“Thomas.”

“Uh, yeah. Everything should be in Wally’s office.” Then, less certainly, “Though with the studio as fu - sorry - messed up - as it is, I dunno if I can find it.”

“We’ll just have to hope.” That was what they were all banking on. Just hope. But Allison couldn't allow herself to think of what would happen should they fail.

There was nothing to truly gather together, as one might before setting off onto a very risky endeavor. It made her feel horribly unprepared as they left Thomas’ barricades and entered the hallway leading back into the main areas of the studio.

At the end of the hallway, ink was undulating over the walls. Allison felt sick looking at it. There was no guarantee that Bendy wasn’t simply lurking nearby, waiting for them to step into his territory.

“You’re sure you need my-“ Joey began.

“Yes. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Thomas nodded grimly.

They couldn't wait forever. They stepped into the cartoonish quasi-reality. The clacking of Joey’s cane made her wince.

“Can you tell where we are?” Allison whispered, as if raising her voice might attract the demon’s attention.

Thomas’ eyes roved. “Well enough. There’s just… some changes.” As he spoke, they warily passed a doorway that led into nowhere. Thomas’ eyes lingered too long on the abyss, and Allison tugged him away.

“Don’t look too long,” she said; he nodded.

“This way.”

So many steps in this plan had the potential to rouse Bendy’s attention that Allison didn’t even want to begin considering it. Every shadow might leap out at them - drag them into darkness and tear them apart with the ease he had Wally…

Allison hugged herself tight. Despite her fears, they reached Wally’s office with no trouble. Allison had felt sure they’d cross his body again, and she quietly dreaded it, but they never did. The corridor may as well have disappeared. Allison wasn’t sure it hadn’t. She tried very hard not to look at the smudged crayon drawings hung up on the wall - _Wally had a child? A wife. A family._

“Hurry,” she urged Thomas.

“I’m trying.” He was ruffling through papers, broken equipment, and other paraphernalia, grabbing tools and screws and other items as he went along.

“Allison,” Joey whispered to her, his wide blue eyes roving around the walls. “I - I should go back to the storage facility… If Bendy wants to kill anyone, it’d be me…”

“Why’s that?”

“It-“ he waved his hand nonsensically. “I- you see-“

“Ok, let’s go-“ the last thing Thomas snatched up was an axe. “To get through the wall,” he explained.

“Or to ward him off,” Allison agreed, feeling light-headed. She wasn’t sure an axe was going to do anything against the demon. She wasn’t sure anything was going to do anything against the demon.

Joey moved his lips as if to speak, but she jerked her head. “Come on. He’s just as likely to kill any of us.” Her thoughts dwelled a second longer on Joey’s sentiments - why would he think Bendy was after him? Because he’d created Bendy? That seemed like an odd reason.  
But fear swiftly flooded over any other ponderings. As they neared the ink machine, its nauseating thumping swelled louder and louder, pounding in the depths of her ear canal. Unconsciously she found herself slinking a little lower to the ground, as if she could hide from the sound. But it was everywhere, all around. No hiding from it, and no fleeing it. They were only getting nearer.

“This was a terrible idea,” she squeaked.

“No.” Thomas’ knuckles were white on the axe’s handle, and his brows taut, showing that he felt the same deep-rooted terror as her. But he pressed on. “You’re right. We have no other choice.”

“Maybe if we just spent another few minutes thinking of another solution.”

He looked at her firmly. “This is what we need to do. They’re connected, Allison - Bendy and the Ink Machine. You have to feel it.”

She nodded.

“That’s why we have to destroy it.”

“Nhn.”

“Almost there.”

They turned the corner and the room opened up. The Ink Machine. It sat like some glutted spider in the very center, its many many legs in the form of pipes branching out and disappearing into every corner of the room. The nausea in her stomach was thickest here, sour and bitter all at once. This place was wrong.

“Keep watch,” Allison told Joey, who had stopped at the door.

He nodded, but his expression was a mask of fear.

“Okay.” Thomas now was whispering, too. “Water line should be behind this wall…”

“You think Bendy will be able to feel it?” Allison asked, terrified at the notion.

“The axe in the wall?”

“Yeah.”

Based on Thomas’ expression, he hadn’t considered the possibility. “Let’s hope not.” He paused. “Just in case-“ he dug out several thick black screws from his pocket and handed them to her. “Keep these ready. Might have to do this quick.”

She curled her fingers around them, but she doubted it would make any difference. If Bendy came as they started destroying the wall, she didn’t think they were going to have the time to do anything else whatsoever.

Thomas readied the axe, and swung. Wood chips splintered. The noise rang loud and clear; it trembled in Allison’s chest. There was no way Bendy wasn’t going to come after hearing this.

But Thomas didn’t stop; galvanized, he struck the wall again, again, again-

Allison pressed close to him, her eyes roving about cautiously. “Hurry, hurry.”

“I’m _trying_ -“

He hacked and hacked until a network of ink-black pipes was revealed. Within them, a silver pipe with a valve.

“Is that-?”

“Yes.” Thomas swiftly shut off the water flow. While he attacked the screws, he said tightly, “Quick, turn off the machine-“

“How-“

“The lever.”

“Uh, which lever?”

“Christ, right. I keep thinking I’m talking to Wally.” He said it without considering it. He flinched when he realized - Wally wasn’t here, and never was going to be again. Wincing, Thomas pointed at Joey. “He can show you where it is.”

The last thing Allison wanted to do was split up, but there was no point in them hanging around doing nothing while Thomas worked.

“Why is the power switch not in the room with the Ink Machine?” Allison hissed as she slunk down the hallway with Joey.

“It made sense at the time!” Joey huffed. “Should the machine malfunction, it was in the employee’s best interest not to be in the room at the time of activating it-“

“So you anticipated that the machine would-“

There was a distant clang. Allison and Joey froze.

“What was that?” he said in a short inhale.

“Let’s keep moving.”

“Was that him?”

Allison grabbed his wrist and yanked him along. It was strange, to think to herself how thin and fragile his wrist seemed. The very same thought had occurred to her as she’d dragged him from the ink. Joey had always seemed so… boisterous, larger than life. Seeing him like this now hardly matched with the Joey she had known before. They did say hardship showed people’s true natures.

Soon Allison and Joey entered a room with a big sign reading Ink Machine: Main Power. Allison cranked the lever down; the sound of the machine came to a low, shuddering halt. Its thumping noise ceased. Steam hissed, something sighed, and then all was quiet. The machine was finally off. In the absence of its noise, Allison’s ears rang.

“Do you think he’ll notice _that_?” Allison whispered.

Joey was deathly pale. “He’s going to get me - he’s- it’s all your fault-“

“Oh, come on-“

They scuttled down the hall like terrified rats in the clutches of something much, much larger. But Bendy didn’t appear.

By the time they returned, Thomas had removed a section of the water pipe, readying it to be connected to the machine, and similarly had unscrewed a long ink-drooling pipe from the machine.

“Hurry,” she whispered.

“ _Allison_ ,” he growled, harsher this time, and she fell silent, anxiously tapping her fingers on her thigh. This whole process had only taken a few minutes, surely, but it felt like eons, and she could barely believe that Bendy hadn’t shown up yet. Was he busy with something else (she trembled to imagine what he might be occupied by)? Had he not noticed at all?

“Okay, okay, okay.” Thomas began screwing in a connecting pipe - one flexible and long enough to reach between the back of the ink machine and the water line in the wall. His fingers fumbled, he dropped a screw; Allison snatched it up and shoved it back into his hands. “I’m trying,” he said again, tighter and tenser, although Allison had said nothing.

“I know, keep going.”

He darted to the wall, and was just fitting in the water line to the pipe when Joey screamed.

Thomas’ screws dropped and scattered across the floor. Allison sucked in a sharp breath.

“Watcha doin’ with my machine?”

There was no mistaking his voice.

Allison turned slowly.

The demon was smiling, ink flowing in eddies around his feet as he stepped out of the wall. Joey cowered not three feet from him, hyperventilating, but Bendy wasn’t sparing him a single look. He had eyes only for Allison.

Thomas grabbed her wrist as if to yank her behind him, but neither moved. Neither breathed.

“Hiya,” Bendy said.

Joey whimpered.

“I asked you two a question,” he chimed.

Thomas’ fingers were clawing into her wrist, but she didn’t so much as flinch. They had much bigger things to worry about. If they didn’t stop Bendy now… he was going to kill everyone in this room. Allison leaned incrementally closer to Thomas. Her lips barely moved as she sighed into his ear, “keep going.”

They were close enough. They could still do this. If Thomas could screw in the pipe, and turn the water back on, then all they needed was to turn the machine on. That would suck the water into the system, replacing all the ink.

“I dropped the screws,” Thomas breathed back.

“People are so bad at talking,” Bendy mused. “Seems like anytime I ask anyone a question, they just stare at me an’ whisper to each other! Well, ‘xcept Sammy. He stutters a bit but he’s pretty good about answerin’. Oh! And Alice; I was just with her - the real Alice, yanno. She ain’t so bad at talking. She knows how t’play like the cartoons.”

“I’ll distract him,” Allison murmured.

“Allison-“

But she was already stepping away from Thomas. She prayed he’d just do what needed to be done rather than trying to stop her.

“The real Alice?” She said, trying and failing to keep a tremor from her voice.

“Uhhuh! Sammy said there was an _original_ , and I found her. But see-” his tail coiled around his leg and he smiled in something that could have been coy but only came across as creepy. “I don’t need two Alices…. ‘specially if one of ‘em doesn’t even have her voice.”

God, he was still caught up on that. Things were so stupidly black and white for him. Then she wrapped her mind around the rest of his words. “The original Alice?” Susie? Had she snuck back into the studio?

“Mhmm! So…” Bendy sidled closer, hugging himself. “That means I don’t need ya anymore, Alice.”

“Wait,” Allison said. Thomas hadn’t tried to stop her yet - she hoped that meant he was rifling for the screws, finishing what needed to be done. “Bendy, I wanted to ask you something.”

Surprise colored his face. “Wow, like a last request? Wally didn’t have that much foresight-“

“Bendy, where’s Henry?” If she was distracting him, she might as well find something useful in the interim.

He blinked. “Whu?”

“Henry. Where is he.”

“Pfft, shucks, are ya worried about him? C’mon, he’s my creator - I’d never _really_ hurt him. He’s safe an’ sound, promise.”

She didn’t know whether she could trust him or not, but his apparent care for Henry easily bled through in his words. She had trust Henry was safe.

“Well, if that’s all, then-“

Yes, the squeak of the water valve behind her. Last step was turning on the machine. Which… the lever was in a completely different room. Alice slung a look to Thomas. _Go_ , she hoped she conveyed. He hesitated. His eyes drifted to Bendy, who was continuing,

“Before I kill ya, I thought we could have a bit of fun, first. See, I learned something else from Sammy-“

“Go,” Allison mouthed to him.

His gaze was wrenching. The lever was just at the end of the hallway. If he could reach it in time-

“an’ it’s that girls got somethin’ different than boys. I thought I could improve on my own  
design, or maybe learn how t’do it like a guy, ‘cause, you know-“

Allison wished she didn’t realize exactly what he was talking about. “I’m a guy an’ all.” Then the demon was right beside her, his thick fingers groping under her skirt. She yelped, skittered back like a startled deer, but she hit the wall and was trapped.

“Allison!” Thomas shrieked.

Bendy leered up at her, barely reaching her belly button.

“Get out of here,” she snarled at Thomas, hoping he understood her meaning. Bendy didn’t seem to have any interest in him at the moment. He could likely leave without any consequence at all, and reach the lever to turn on the machine again.

For a horrible moment, she thought he wasn’t going to go. Then he ran.

Bendy laughed. “Boy, some friend you got. C’mon, show me what’s under all your clothes-“

He started tugging down her pantyhose; Joey made a strangled noise and started backing clumsily to the door, his knuckles white on his cane.

The little monster threw a look over his shoulder, petrifying Joey. “C’mon, I thought you of all people would’a understood, Joey.”

“What?” Allison said hoarsely. She almost wished she hadn’t spoken when Bendy’s beetle black eyes fixed back on her with the eeriest expression.

“Well, the kids, a’course.”

“Stop!” Joey’s voice hit a new octave of terror, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to come closer. “Bendy, stop, you - you don’t need to mention that-“

Confusion crossed Bendy’s face. He tilted his head. “Joey, ya told me it wasn’t something anybody’s care ‘bout hearing…” Then he trailed off, eyes going round. “Oh, ya silly goober! You were lyin’!” Bendy broke out laughing.

“Bendy, please, I’ll do anything - I’ll - I’ll help you!” Joey laughed wildly, though it was frantic and high-pitched, a laugh of sheer terror rather than Bendy’s amusement. “I can be very valuable to you - as - as a studio owner, I know all about how to run the place; I can give you pointers-“

“Shut up.”

Joey froze.

Bendy smiled.

“I don’t care about ya, Joey Drew. You don’t know anythin’. You’re just a phony, pretendin’ like ya did things when everyone around ya deserves the credit.” His fingers were stroking up and down her thigh now and Allison very much wanted him to stop stop stop but she was paralyzed, afraid of drawing his attention fully back to hers.

“Most of all,” Bendy said, “you claimed to make me… but that was Henry. Henry’s my creator.” He said it with a deep reverence, like nothing else made him quite so happy.

“So, really,” Bendy added, a cheerful lilt back in his voice, “If those pictures were a secret after all, I ain’t got any reason to keep it for ya.” He squeezed Allison’s thigh and whispered conspiratorially, “See, Joey Drew’s-“

“BENDY NO-“

“Got some pictures in his-“

“PLEASE ANYTHING-“

“Desk. Pictures of-“

“PLEASE-“

Whispering, “ _copulation_.”

Allison didn’t understand. Bendy peered at her face, trying to discern some negative reaction, and when he didn’t get it, he pouted.

“Yes,” Joey laughed hoarsely, “yes, I know I shouldn’t have, but a man has his needs-“

So Joey had… had porn at his desk. That was gross, but given the scope of everything happening lately, Allison really didn’t care in the slightest. This was life or death, what did Joey’s habits matter? The sheer absurdity of it jarred her.

“Err,” Bendy drew away, frowning. “Err, pictures of copulation that wasn’t wanted?”

Rape? Did Joey rape someone? Confusion still dominated her expression. She hoped Thomas would hurry.

“Wow I was hopin’ for more than that.” Bendy tapped below his frown thoughtfully. “Pictures ‘a kids Joey was copulatin’ with?” He tried.

What. Kids? 

For several seconds she stared incomprehensibly at Bendy. Then to Joey.

 _This isn’t true,_ she thought. _It’s some weird thing that the demon is making up; something he doesn’t understand or something he got wrong -_

Joey would correct it. He would -

But the look in Joey’s eyes said it all.

No. _What_. No.

Oh God.

She knew he was messed up. She had never fathomed he might be that evil, that depraved…

“I-I - it’s a misunderstanding,” Joey rushed to say. “I didn’t - he doesn’t understand -“

“Your tours,” Allison said hoarsely.

“No-“

“Oh my God this entire time-“

“N-not all of it - not every time-“

Bendy giggled uncontrollably. “You should’a seen the pictures!” He crowed. “Joey just loves touchin’ those kiddos, lemme tell ya. And boy, they -“

The Ink Machine shuddered and groaned.

“-were not too pleased ‘bout it! There was an awful lotta pictures, too; I bet Joey-“

The rhythmic thumping began again. Beating in the walls. This time, sucking up water rather than ink.

“-gets all kind’sa sex in with lot’sa different kids.”

“You sick, evil man,” Allison breathed.

“Yeah Jo-eey,” Bendy echoed mockingly. “Ya s-“ his words cut off.

Allison took a shaky step back. 

All of Bendy’s confidence was gone, abruptly; his eyes went oval, as if he were the innocent character from the show itself. His head swung toward the machine in confusion, then back at Allison. “A-Alice?” Even that uncertainty was so characteristic of Bendy in the cartoons. But he wasn’t that.

She hugged herself tightly, staggering back. “Suck dirt and die, demon.” And Joey - oh, Joey would be handled after.

The machine groaned, but it wasn’t like any noise she’d heard before - it was diseased-sounding, pneumatic.

“W-wait-“ for the first time ever, she heard fear in his voice, and nothing was more satisfying.

“Th-they’re trying to kill you,” Joey uttered, stumbling nearer to Bendy. “They came here to destroy the machine - You have to kill them, Bendy, you have to kill them quickly -“

Thomas skidded into the room, nearly running into her. “Did it-?” He started.

“What - what did ya do?” Bendy spun in place and bolted to the machine, pressing his hands to it in panic, skittering along its side, stroking as if a treasured pet. “What - how - what’s-“ The chugging groan got worse and worse. Bendy’s tail lashed; his movements became more and more frenetic.

“Allison, we need to leave-“ Thomas breathed.

_“What did they do?!”_

“Connected the water line to the ink machine, Bendy; they’re flooding the system-“

“Stop, stop, stop, STOP-“ the words turned into a shriek of outrage.

Thomas grabbed her wrist and yanked, “Allison, now!”

Bendy whirled in place. He hunched, snarling in rage; for a half-second, it looked bizarrely comical, like a young child in the throes of a tantrum. Then his teeth began to elongate; his body dripped and twisted and it was growing larger, larger-

Allison ran.

“What about Joey-?” Thomas panted as they bolted down the hallways.

“Leave him!”

A single look at her expression, and he didn’t question.

All around them, the walls were shaking and changing. But not distorting to his whims, not growing darker. Exactly the opposite. Everything was returning to normal, non-cartoon, the way it should be. No longer held under Bendy’s sway. And that meant… the doors, the doors- the exit -

“I think it’s working,” Thomas gasped.

They could leave the studio.

They whipped around the corner; Allison’s arms churned and her breath heaved. They nearly ran headlong into the door; her hands fumbled over the knob. She just twisted it when something grabbed the scruff of her neck and ripped her away from the door.

She hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs.

Sammy Lawrence, stood over her, absolutely deranged, his left arm mutilated and dripping blood. “What did you do to him?”

She could only heave mutely, lungs seizing from the fall.

_“What did you do to my Lord?”_


	28. Allison

They were so _so_ close. But Sammy loomed overhead, his lips peeled back in a snarl. Between her and the door. Never in her time working at the studio had she been afraid of Sammy but now - now she was very, very afraid. This wasn’t the Music Director she’d known. She wanted to speak, to say something that might remind Sammy of what he was before, but the fall had knocked the air from her lungs and she could only gasp in shallow, staccato breaths. She wasn’t even sure if the man he was before was recoverable. 

Oh my God, he needed to let them through - 

Thomas shouted something; he grabbed at Sammy as if to yank him away from Allison. Sammy immediately whirled onto Thomas instead, slashing a fist across his face. 

A breathless scream left Allison’s throat as little more than a rasp. She - she had to move, she had to do something -

Thomas grunted. Fists swung. Blood spattered - it took Allison too many seconds to realize the most was coming from Sammy’s arm, which had already been ripped open and was freely bleeding. There wasn’t time for this-

Allison slung a look over her shoulder. The hallway through which they had come - it was still empty. Hadn’t Bendy been just behind them? Where was he? It was almost worse not knowing, because there was no telling how close, how far. But then - what if he wasn’t coming? What if the destruction of the machine had hurt him after all?

“Thomas,” she finally managed to gasp. The moment he spent to look at her, Sammy used to pin him to the wall. 

“Where is Bendy?” Sammy demanded. 

“By the Ink Machine!” Thomas spit out. 

“You hurt him.” Sammy’s fingers leapt to Thomas’ throat. 

“Stop, stop!” Allisons struggled to her feet, her voice weak but usable. “Sammy, come with us!” If he were only to leave the studio - perhaps it would shake off whatever influence had him behaving this way - 

Sammy only laughed, bitterly and sardonically. “Come with _you_?” His grip tightened; Thomas twitched and struggled. “Why would I chose you over my Lord? Over a creature so magnificent, so frightening…”

_What._ “Sammy, stop it! This isn’t you!”

The door by this point was completely unguarded. She could leave at this very moment. But the thought didn’t cross her mind for a second, because it would mean leaving Thomas with Sammy. With Bendy. She seized Sammy’s arm, digging her fingers into the pre-existing wounds. He yowled. In one swift movement, he jerked away from Thomas and backhanded her across the face. 

That was all Thomas needed. As Sammy leered over her, Thomas snatched up the axe that had fallen from his hands. One hearty swing had the blade jutting through Sammy’s back and out his chest with a hideous thud that Allison wished she’d never had the misfortune of hearing. Sammy’s blue eyes seemed only brighter, clearer, in their shock. Allison screamed.

Sammy’s fingers blankly touched the bloody edge of the weapon, disbelieving. His thin lips trembled, on the verge of forming words that never came. 

Thomas grabbed Allison’s wrist. “Let’s go-“

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t look.” 

The exit opened. Thomas pulled her into freedom. 

…

…..

…..

The door slammed behind them.

They were outside.

Cars honked. People in the street hollered. The sun blazed down an orange-ish hue, a good way towards evening, and it reflected off the hoods and chrome bumpers of vehicles just starting their after work commute, as well as in store shop windows and off signs.

Allison breathed. Dust. The rich fragrance from the nearby bakery, mingling unpleasantly with the dung of horses. A brisk hint of winter just around the corner. 

_They were out_. And these people… they were going about their lives as normal. As if nothing strange at all had happened. Of course, to them, nothing had. Just one more work day in a long line of endless days. They were none the wiser. 

Everything was so… impossibly real. Impossibly normal. As if the events in the studio had been a dream. Allison blinked. She looked back to the door, which, closed and seen from the outside, was very much just a simple innocuous door, squatting beneath the ostentatious sign declaring Joey Drew Studios. 

Allison glanced at Thomas, as if to verify - _these past few hours have actually happened, haven’t they?_

The look he returned was a pale, shell-shocked one. The nightmare had been real. 

“I - I think I just killed Sammy-“ he uttered. Then he heel-turned and immediately grabbed for the studio door as to stomp right back in and reverse whatever he’d just done. 

“No!” Allison grabbed his arm. “Thomas, what are you thinking?”

“Sammy’s - I -“ Thomas looked so lost. “I axed him - in the chest - god, Allison, I think I just killed a man-“

“He was about to kill us!”

“I have to-“

“NO!” Allison yanked on his arm. “Thomas, if you go back, Bendy will hurt you, probably kill you-“

He froze. “This all has to be fake. I’m imagining this. I’m - I’m dreaming-“

So he was just as bewildered by the outside world, as if they were two travelers from a distant land. As if they no longer belonged to this world, though they had just this morning before they came to work. So much had changed since then. People had died. And Sammy… Allison shuddered. The axe had gone all the way through his chest. She was sure he was dead, too, or dying. Despite how much he had terrified her, she didn’t believe he had deserved that. No, she was sure it was the influence of that foul place that had him behaving so horribly. But she was also sure there was nothing they could do for him now…. And attempting to would result in their own death.

“I-I can’t believe I-“ Thomas gazed down at his own shaking hands. 

“That place influences you,” Allison argued. “Couldn’t you feel it?”

“But what does it say if I’m capable of-“

“Nothing,” Allison said firmly. “It doesn’t say anything about you - look what happened to Sammy, to his mind!”

“What do we do?” Thomas replied helplessly. 

Allison looked out onto the city. She didn’t know, either.

“Should we - go to the police?”

Should they? What could the police even do? Allison ran her fingers through her hair. “Even if the police do believe us… What if Bendy just…?” She couldn't imagine guns or knives would do anything at all against him. What power did those things have to destroy ink? But Bendy - oh, Bendy would be able to hurt them. 

Thomas nodded mutely, understanding. 

A bout of light-headedness washed over her; Allison sunk to the ground. “What do we do?” She whispered.

Thomas had no reply.

“Ma’am?” Someone’s shadow cast over her, “ma’am, is this gentleman bothering you?” A portly man with a rosy, concerned face. 

“What?” Thomas said blankly.

Allison blinked in shock. Simple courtesy and kindness. It was so absurd compared to what she had just experienced that she nearly laughed in response, and the man’s brow only furrowed more, “my lady, is he-“

“No,” Allison somehow managed to say. “No, I’m fine, thank you. Just um - just the heat.”

He was frowning closely at her - oh. Right. Sammy had hit her, and the strike stung. She’d barely noticed in the light of everything happening, but undoubtedly it was noticeable to this man, and he was coming to all kinds of incorrect conclusions about Thomas. “Are you sure-“ he started.

“Yes.” Allison struggled to her feet, swatting away the man’s outstretched hand, and she forced the fakest smile she’d ever worn. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“But-“

“I’m fine,” she snapped, smile gone.

“Hum, well, good day.” Miffed, the man toddled off. 

Thomas stared after as if he, too, was just as puzzled by such a routine sort of interaction. 

Bizarrely, it did remind Allison of other normalcies of real life - like the very real need to eat or drink (and the suddenly pressing matter of discovering she needed to use the restroom). She had done none of these tasks for the entire work day, as other priorities as clearly held precedence. 

“Let’s eat,” she said abruptly. 

Thomas’ default expression for today was apparently bewilderment. “ _What_?”

“We need to re-fuel.”

“Allison, I just killed-“

“I know,” she snapped, and screwed her eyes shut. “I know. And Wally’s dead, and god knows who else. I just - let’s get food, and - and go to the bathroom and-“ Breathe, hopefully. Just breathe, and think. 

Thomas nodded, looking very much as if he were going to throw up. 

 

 

Ten minutes later found Allison and Thomas sitting outside a local restaurant. It was inordinately mundane thing to be doing after everything they had experienced, and Allison found herself continually blinking at the world around her as if it would start to make sense or feel familiar again. Thomas picked at his food, despite Allison telling him to just eat it. 

Allison forced another forkful of food into her mouth. It was tasteless and bland, but she kept eating. 

“Allison,” Thomas started tremulously. “About Sammy…”

“Stop. You were acting in self-defense.”

“He didn’t even have a weapon,” Thomas replied hoarsely.

“He could have done a lot to us without one.”

“But-“

 “I don’t think Bendy’s dead,” Allison interjected.

Thomas’ fork clinked on his plate as he looked up.

“But the water might have hurt him.”

“He was chasing us,” Thomas said in some way of protest. “How do you-?”

“He never caught up. Not even when-“ Allison winced at mentioning Sammy again. Much as she was trying to comfort Thomas, because she knew it wasn’t truly his fault, how things had played out, it was still difficult to wrap her mind around - well, everything. His manic expression, his slavish devotion. The axe blade protruding grotesquely from his chest. Allison shuddered, locking up those memories as best she could for now. “Bendy should have caught up to us,” she finished. The demon had proven he could travel exceptionally quickly before. So why the wait? Maybe toying with them, sure, but… maybe he’d been more affected by the machine’s destruction than they had initially thought. “So I bet it hurt him, if it didn’t kill him.”

“So…” Thomas helplessly gestured. His fork bounced dumbly in his hand and a pea plopped to the floor. “Oh-“ 

“I think we have to go back in.”

Thomas choked.

“Everyone’s still in there, Thomas. That’s most of the employees. And-“ she faltered, grazing over the thought of Joey again. Of what Bendy had said, and Joey’s expression confirmed. An ugly part of her wondered if he was worth saving at all. The things they’d insinuated…

“You want us - to go back _in_?” Thomas prompted when she failed to continue. 

She shook off the thought. Sometime soon she would need to tell Thomas - she’d need to tell everyone. Once she knew how to say it. But Joey aside, there were dozens of people within the studio, people that hadn’t deserved what they might get. Nothing about the studio’s facade betrayed the danger lurking within, but if Allison was certain of anything, it was that the demon was still inside, and still retained the power to terrorize whatever inhabitants were left. Given time, could he even reverse what had been done to the machine? Could it be fixed, started again? “I’ve been thinking about it,” she replied. “Thomas, they need our help.” 

“The fire department,” Thomas said. “Fire engines.”

“And what, tell them just - soak the whole building? It’s on fire, promise?”

Thomas shrugged helplessly, eyes round. 

“We have to get people out,” Allison re-iterated.

“I’m not going back in.” 

He didn’t want to see Sammy dead, and didn’t want to see Bendy. Allison didn’t blame him, and she very much understood why he had changed his mind about the matter, now that he’d been given time to think it over. “I am,” she responded firmly. 

Yes. If there was anything she could do - anyone she could save - she’d do it. Her plate was only half eaten, but something was better than nothing. She stood resolutely. 

“Wait-“ Thomas struggled out of his seat, banging his knees against the table in the process. “Hold on, you can’t go in alone-“

“I should be back quickly.” Bendy's control over the studio had been arrested, after all, which meant there was no better time to infiltrate the place and lead others back to the exit… Unlike before, he wouldn't be able to track where in the studio she was, right? Allison turned, rolling over ideas in her mind how to best evacuate folks. And if she could find a way to destroy Bendy once and for all, too-

“Hold on - _hold on_ -“ Thomas stumbled after her. “I’m not going with you,” he repeated, as if he thought she hadn’t fully grasped this.

“I know. You should wait by the entrance. I-“

“Stop-“

“Will find whoever I can and-“

“ _Stop_.” His sharpness halted her. He studied her frantic face, reading that she wasn’t going to change her mind, and nothing he said was going to do that for her. 

“I’ll go with you,” he finally surrendered with a deep-rooted dread, as if he could barely believe he was agreeing to this. Allison could barely believe herself what they were about to do. But if they didn't even try - if they abandoned all those people - she'd never forgive herself. 


	29. Henry

Henry spent too long curled on his side, gasping for breath after the vicious kick to his ribs. He spent long enough that way that he became afraid he’d missed whatever break for freedom may have been available to him. Still, once he crawled onto wobbly legs with the help of a music stand, Sammy had not returned, and neither had Bendy. He drew additional comfort from the walls which were definitively wood, and not ink, meaning that whatever had been done to sever Bendy’s control over the studio was still in place. Henry sent a silent prayer to whoever or whatever had stopped him. He couldn't help the frail, sputtering spark that dared to believe maybe this time, this time, things wouldn't end up in even more of a disaster. Henry thought he was done with hoping, because it had only led him to worse and worse pains. If he had any energy, he’d laugh at himself. But he didn’t. His mind reverted to a simpler state. He wanted to survive. He wanted to escape. It was that simple. 

One step shot fire up his spine. He hunched over the music stand, heaving.  
  
_I can’t do this,_ he thought. _I can’t walk._

Sammy had damaged him somehow. In some way physically irreparable. Was that possible? Henry didn’t know. He had no precedent for this. He just.. had to keep moving. 

Another step. A whimper that would have been better suited coming from a beaten dog. Another step. His knuckles were white as he walked them along the music stands. One more step. After this point, there were no music stands or chairs to cling to. Just the long long gap between where he stood and the door. Here, Henry nearly despaired again. This was so much effort and pain, all to only end in failure. Bendy was going to find him. It would all be some divine joke. He was so, so tired, and everything hurt. 

No. Things would be worse if he didn’t escape… He had to try. 

Henry forced himself to walk. With every step it got easier: that, or the pain became familiar, like a background noise he could turn down low. Still his pace was creakingly slow as he headed towards the exit, through halls that once were familiar and now were haunting. His vision tilted and lurched. At any moment, Bendy could leap out, grab him, drag him back to hell. 

_No._ Think only of freedom. Of being out. Of sunlight, freedom. Those things made him weak with longing. He could barely imagine existence without fear at this point, but just freedom… that, that he wanted so badly. His hands slid along the wall to guide his path. His feet clumsily shuffled. Closer to the exit. So, so close. 

He even found the willpower to speed up, despite his pain, or in spite of it. 

Close. Freedom. Escape. 

If he could just walk through the door, he’d never never enter again. He’d warn everyone. He’d destroy this place, no matter what it took. It shouldn't live. It shouldn't exist. Not anymore. 

Then - then there was the exit, mere yards away.

But Henry didn’t have a single fraction of a second to be happy about it. The second he saw it, everything in him went still with terror and dismay. His brain leapt into over-drive, the very same way a rabbit spotted by a fox would. He could have collapsed on the spot from despair. 

Bendy. Bendy was there, between Henry and the door.

His brief, pathetic sojourn meant nothing after all. He wasn’t going to escape. Bendy was going to hurt him again. Probably kill him. This was it.

Henry nearly sobbed out loud, however humiliating and pathetic that would have been. It was hopeless after all. 

Henry slumped against the wall. _You won_ , he thought helplessly. _Just kill me._ Death would be better than further tortures. He couldn't endure any more. He was done. Ready to give up.

But… Bendy didn’t lift his head to acknowledge him. In fact, the demon didn’t seem to have even realized Henry was there at all. His little cartoon body was crouching over a large black mass of vaguely human shape. It wasn’t moving, not that Henry could tell, but the implications to Henry were obvious: Bendy had killed someone again. On some level Henry felt shock: mostly, he felt numb. Bendy was going to kill them all, in the end. There was nothing he could now. And Henry was next. He kept expecting Bendy to turn around and lunge. 

But he didn’t. His white gloved hands were moving over the roiling mass of ink, sometimes pressing into it or kneading. His tail was lashing left to right, in a jerky, anxious motion. He seemed to be trying to accomplish something, but Henry didn’t know what. Whatever it was, he wanted no part in it. Had the demon truly not noticed him?

Henry took a slow step back. Bendy still failed to react. The demon was harshly murmuring words under his breath; ones Henry couldn't hear properly, but they made it clear Bendy wasn’t pleased. 

There was no way. Could he really encounter Bendy, and then disappear back in the studio without ever attracting his attention?Even if he could… to do so was to delay the inevitable…. Henry wavered for a moment. Maybe he should alert Bendy to his presence. Accept death fully, as there was no escape. 

But that death… that was guaranteed to be slow. There were better ways to die, faster ones. Yes. He’d go deeper in the studio. Hang himself, maybe. There was sure to be rope lying around somewhere… If he could simply do this quietly… 

With his eyes firmly fixed on Bendy, Henry crept back. It was only as he was about to turn that he realized the mass of ink was… undulating. No. _Breathing_. 

“Sammy,” Bendy murmured with raising pitch, shaking the ink mass. “Sammy, Sammy!”

Oh. 

The ink jerked. Kicked. Began to rise. 

Henry found it in himself to run, using the walls for support. Many times he tripped; once he fell. His knees exploded with pain, and he crawled his way back up again, vision blurry. Had to keep moving. Had to - had to - 

He thought of the elevators. That would be quick. Yes, he’d go there. Stand on the highest floor, and step off. A short death. Henry changed direction. 

“Henry!” Someone yelled. 

No. No no. Not God not Bendy - 

Henry tried to go faster, but his legs, his body, _everything_ resisted. 

“Henry, hold up!”

No. He couldn't endure it. Not anymore-

Closer, “Henry, god damnit-“ A hand clamped onto his arm and spun him around - Henry flinched and emitted a piteous cry. Joey threw his arms around him. “What’s wrong with you!” Joey exclaimed. “Am I glad to see you alive! I didn’t know _what_ to think when Bendy took you like that- anything could have happened!”

Joey. 

Joey, not Bendy. 

“So glad you’re all right, Henry, so glad-“

Henry was overly aware of every place that Joey was touching him. What if Joey did what Sammy or Bendy had done-

“Now, Henry, now that we know we’re both safe, do you know where Allison is?”

What if Joey held him down - what if he -

“Are you hearing anything I’m saying?” Joey was abruptly in his face; Henry twisted away and shoved off his arms. 

“Don’t touch me!”

Joey blinked at him. “Henry, are you feeling okay?”

Joey… Joey wouldn't do those things. This was his _friend_ , and - and Henry was acting like a lunatic. Henry swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yes. Sorry.” He thought he was far past the point of being collected about anything, but he managed a weak smile. “I’m - I’m glad you’re alive, too.” 

“Yes, fine, but - I asked if you had seen Allison.”

“Wh-what?”

“Allison, Allison, focus-“

“I…” Henry shook his head, unable to keep up with the conversation. He’d planned to kill himself, but now he wasn’t sure. He couldn't just abandon Joey… And if others were alive, too - could he leave them?

Joey intervened, “you were by the exit, yes? Was she there? Henry, it’s a simple question. Was Allison there?”

“N-no, but - Bendy is. Sammy and him. We - we should keep moving.” No matter what they ultimately intended to do, they had to keep moving. Otherwise…. Otherwise Bendy would catch up, and then they would have no choice at all. Dizzily, Henry lurched toward a new hallway. Somewhere else, that’s all that mattered, somewhere away from Bendy.

“Hold on now-“ Joey scuttled after him, “Listen to me, did you see Allison escape? Did she get out of the studio?”

_What?_ “N-no, I didn’t see her at all, Joey, move-“

Joey swore, but obeyed, clinging hard to Henry. His touch made Henry’s skin crawl. (Would any touch ever be safe?)

“Maybe she made it out,” Henry muttered. God, he hoped so. He wanted someone in this nightmare to have escaped.

“Maybe so,” Joey replied, but didn’t seem at all convinced, going by the look of petrified terror on his face. “We need to find her to be sure, Henry. I’m - I’m just so worried for her.”

Foggily, Henry thought, _that’s unusual._ Joey had never shown any particular interest in Allison. “Everyone’s in danger,” Henry said. “Every single one of us.” 

“Yes, of course, I just- Bendy seemed to take a particular interest in her. He’s ignoring everyone else at the moment.”

A particular interest? Henry’s stomach churned. He knew what that interest was like. It sickened him to think that Bendy might feel that way towards Allison also. He prayed that she had made it out.

“I think Sammy is dead,” Henry added belatedly, “but he… he might be coming back.” It was a goal of Bendy’s, after all. One he’d been distracted from numerous times, but when it came to his loyal worshipper.. Henry raked his fingers through his hair. 

“How unfortunate!” Joey declared. “Say, where are you going, Henry? Do you think Allison went this way?”

“I don’t know.” He didn’t really know anything. He didn’t know what to do now that Joey had joined him. 

“You said the demon was blocking the exit?”

“Yeah.”

“Hrm. Well, I may have another route!”

“What?” Henry stopped too fast; his vision blurred.

“Sure. Fire safety and all that - we were required to install another exit to the studio, see.”

“I… didn’t know that.”

“Well, it’s close to my office. Come this way, Henry. I tried the exit earlier, of course, but well, it rolled right up like a screen!” 

“Yeah.” Those antics were familiar to Henry at this point. “When - when did you install that?”

“Hardly matters anymore. The point is, now that the machine is pumping water, Bendy likely won’t be able to control that door anymore! We’ll be able to get right out!”

Joey was talking so rapidly that Henry was having trouble keeping up. “The machine is - what?”

Joey patted him; Henry flinched. “Pumping water, Henry. Genius idea, isn’t it? I came up with all myself, and Allison and Tom helped to make it reality. We attached the water line to the ink machine, and we’re getting - _God, what is that_!?”

Joey skittered behind Henry, cane flailing. 

Henry halted. He saw black ink, and instantly thought _Bendy_. But it wasn’t. Neither was it the mass he had seen earlier, the thing he assumed was Sammy. This was neither. It had no discernible legs, but rather a drippy, slunched torso, topped by a large, malformed head. That head twisted up and gaped stupidly - Henry wasn’t sure if it had any functional eyes, but it detected their presence somehow, as it suddenly lurched forward in agitation, letting out a gargled cry. A few strands of long ink-black hair were slicked to its otherwise bare skull, and some loose teeth swam in its churning jaws. 

“It’s disgusting,” Joey said with horror. “Henry, what is it!?”

“Joey-“ Henry said tightly. “Joey, I think this was a person-“

An arm detached from the ink and slapped down on the floor, dragging the monstrosity closer. Its maw opened wider, a slimy red-black tongue writhing as if to form words, but only nonsensical bubbling moans emerged. 

Henry, disgusted as he was, couldn't stop staring. He was only more certain of his assessment. This thing had been _human._

Joey was creeping back down the hallway. “Henry, Henry, move it! Do you want to get eaten by that thing?”

Henry’s eyes trailed along the creature’s sticky strands of limp hair. Another arm slurped out of its body; it heaved its mass even nearer. 

“Henry, are you insane?!”

He looked into its eyeless sockets and saw nothing recognizable. 

“Eeuurh,” the thing moaned. Wet fingers snared his ankle. It seemed… pleading…? The hair, the hair seemed familiar… 

“Susie?” Henry whispered.

“Hey!” A high-pitched voice snapped. _No no no not Bendy-_

The demon shot past Henry like a blur; Henry struck the wall in the effort to get as far as possible, and then - then Bendy forcibly grabbed the ink creature’s head and slammed its skull into the ground. His booted foot came down on its skull, one, twice, three times, and then he kept going, smashing it into nothing but puddles of ink. Bits of hair and teeth floated to the top. 

Bendy finally stopped, his fingers unconsciously clenching and unclenching at his sides. His tail was low and tense. 

Henry could barely breathe. He looked down the hall to see Joey was gone. Fled. 

“Told you not to touch stuff,” Bendy muttered to the floor. “First ya had to turn out all wrong, and then you go botherin’ Henry…” 

Remembering the animator’s presence, Bendy turned around. His expression was dark. “I’ve been havin’ a _terrible_ evening,” he growled to Henry. 

Henry feared that he was going to go into cardiac arrest with how fast his heart was beating. At least then he’d be dead and all this would be over.

“I hate water!” Bendy suddenly exploded with, and stomped on the ink creature’s ruined body again. 

Henry inched back. 

“I hate Alice,” Bendy hissed, and  _stomp, stomp, stomp._  “The _new_ one. She doesn’t even know how to play the character right!"

Bendy ground his boot into the floor. "And then Sammy ran off, an' I couldn't even get properly mad at him 'cause that engineer _axed_ him! And my machine-" Bendy at this point was shaking in rage, and Henry was convinced he wasn't going to survive this encounter. "My machine-" Bendy started again, growling. 

A pause.

Bendy took a deep breath. "My machine can be fixed," he said with a forced cheeriness that seemed far too familiar. "It ain't _permanently_ broken. We just - we just gotta - fix it right up, right, Henry? Good as new!"

This entire time, Henry had assumed what Joey and the others did to the machine was something that severed Bendy's control over the studio, without actually effecting Bendy himself. But now, looking at the dripping devil and his forced smile and round eyes, Henry wondered if it had hurt Bendy, too. (No don't hope, it's useless-) he wondered if entirely dismantling the machine might-

"Right, Henry?" Bendy said sharply. 

"Yes," he replied in a gasp, terrified of disobedience.

"Yeah." Bendy crept closer. "It'll be okay, creator. We'll get it sorted out." He reached up and grasped Henry's hand in his own. Bones crunched. "I'll get that silly angel in the end."


	30. Bendy

From near-omnipotence to _nothing._ Worse than nothing. 

The water in the walls was _thin_. It left Bendy disoriented, like he could barely keep his form together. On top of that, there was no substance, no ink to see through. Neither could he manipulate anything within the studio any longer - the water was light, like he was trying to grab air alone, or to grab something _with_ air. It couldn’t be done. 

The whole deal was pretty upsetting. It left a demon with a strong desire for something _good_ to happen. Sammy getting axed in the chest? Yeah, that wasn’t his idea of good, especially when Bendy’s whole plan about bringing him back didn’t work as well as he’d hoped. Now Sammy was… well, he was _something_. A first draft, so to speak.

Worse, Bendy had ran back to the recording studio only to find Henry gone.

Just as Bendy was about to do something _very_ out of character, he finally found Henry. The silly animator had been on on his way to escaping. Bendy wasn’t mad, not really - he couldn't blame Henry for wanting to leave the studio. He just couldn't let Henry _act_ on that desire. And the important thing was that he had stopped Henry in time! Creator and creation were back together, just like they should be! That was the sort of boost Bendy needed in this challenging time, even Henry looked less than enthusiastic. 

“C’mon, silly,” Bendy told him good-naturedly. “The Ink Machine is this way. You gotta help me fix it.”

Henry didn’t say anything. He was clutching his wrist - the one whose hand now ended in several fingers bent and twisted into angles they probably shouldn't be. 

Bendy winced. He hadn’t meant to do that. He just wanted to give Henry a good reassuring squeeze. But bones were so fragile… And what a thrill, feeling them crunch under his grip. Bendy shook off the appealing thought of crushing Henry’s other hand, too. 

“Hurts a lot, huh?” Bendy couldn't resist asking.

Henry’s eyes curved to him, wild and terrified. 

“Aw, it’s okay. I won’t do it again soon.” He grabbed Henry’s sleeve and yanked it to his level, before winding his fingers around Henry’s wounded hand. “C’mon. No slackin’!" 

A single gentle tug had Henry readily following him, hissing, “Bendy, please-“

“It’s only a lil tugging,” Bendy had to remind himself to go easy on Henry. The animator needed more time to recover: that’s what Sammy had said a while back, and Bendy guessed it was still true, based on how Henry was behaving. Really was a pity - Henry was taking practically _eons_ to heal.

“Say, are ya feelin’ any better at all, Henry?” Bendy asked. “I was real worried… ya weren’t s’pposed to go exerting yourself, creator. Gotta look after yourself.”

Henry didn’t say anything.

“Tell ya what,” Bendy said, “Once we fix the machine, I’ll keep ya safe myself. Lock ya up somewhere that ain’t nobody gonna ever find you. And I’ll make sure ya stay safe. Won’t have nothin’ to get yourself hurt on. Doesn’t that sound great?”

Henry was pale. Bendy sighed. “You’ll come t’like it. Promise. We’ll make episodes together.”

Henry made a distorted noise of shock and recoiled.

“It ain’t so bad,” Bendy started, misunderstanding what Henry reacted to. “The episodes will be real fun, bouncy ones, an-“ It was then that Bendy realized what Henry’s shock was over, and the demon paused. “Oh, right.”

Henry had found Bendy’s new friend. Well, friend was the wrong word, because Bendy had only seen him once, and he’d been in such a hurry that he rushed right past. But Bendy liked him.

There was a man stuck in the wall, see. A man whose face jutted from the wood, splinters burrowing in his cheeks like spiders. One hand stuck out too, along with little glimpses of his body and legs. Anywhere his flesh met wood was stained red. His eyes were rounder than Bendy had ever seen any human’s, and they were flicking every which way and leaking tears. 

“H-help,” he uttered, hoarse and whisper-quiet. Bendy suspected that had something to do with the stakes of wood buried in his chest, but he didn't really know for sure. With humans, you never really know!

“That’s Wally,” Bendy said conversationally. “Not Wally-Wally, because he’s dead, but this guy’s the new Wally!” Truthfully, Bendy didn’t know the man’s name. The guy had only gargled frantically at Bendy last time the devil passed by. “C’mon, it’s good, right?” Bendy prompted. “Wally, ‘cause he’s stuck in the wall. Get it?”

Henry’s expression was classic. He knew just how to cheer Bendy up. Laughing, Bendy added, “Look, it ain’t really _my_ fault. When that dumb angel ruined my machine, the entire studio just went back to normal. So, that means suddenly, walls where I didn’t have walls. I’m just sayin,’ it’s Alice’s fault.”

Henry didn’t reply again. Normally, he’d respond to something like this with increasing horror, and maybe some pleading for Bendy to _stop, god, please, let that man go_ , or something delightful like that. But in this case, after the initial shock, he seemed to… wear out. Like he wasn’t truly surprised anymore, just… resigned. That wasn’t nearly as much fun.

Bendy frowned. “What’s wrong with ya, Henry? Ain’t this horrible?”

“It’s all horrible,” Henry spoke it as if it cost him more energy than he truly had.

“That’s why it’s great,” Bendy responded. 

Henry looked ready to drop.

“Help?” Wally but not Wally-Wally breathed in a desperate inhale. “Help. Please.”

“Aw, shut up. C’mon, Henry. Sooner we get that Machine fixed, sooner ya get to rest like ya need.” At least he _assumed_ that’s what Henry needed, but he wasn’t sure. Humans were complicated. He just wanted Henry back to normal.

Bendy towed Henry to the Ink Machine room, which felt the worst out of the entire studio, such a concentration of light empty _water_. This close to the machine, it was like his body barely wanted to work anymore. They needed to fix this, ASAP.

As Bendy slunk towards the machine, he passed what was left of Sammy, just where he had left him.

“Hiya, Sam,” Bendy greeted. 

The blob on the floor, torso arms and head, was about the only thing Bendy had managed to recover from Sammy. It was a work in progress. He’d try again later; he didn’t want to dwell on this failure. The important thing was to keep going, and always grin through it all. 

Sammy made an ink-strangled noise.

“He’s a lot quieter lately,” Bendy informed Henry. “Guess an axe to the chest will do that to ya. Henry, you don’t gotta look at him. I know he looks bad, but I’m still learnin,’ all right? Now show me how ta detach this water pipe-" 

“Hhuu,” Sammy groaned.

Henry stared.

“Henry, really, he ain’t that interesting-“

Henry swayed. 

“Henry?”

The animator’s gaze snapped up to Bendy again. His face was white as paper, worse even than it had been in the hall earlier. The walk here and seeing Sammy had apparently done him no favors. Or maybe it was the fingers that were broken. Was the copulation still affecting him? Or perhaps that ring of bruises around his neck from where Bendy had strangled him. It was so hard to guess, but Bendy didn't feel like any of those things should be grounds for Henry to look so ill.

“Hellooo?” Bendy prompted impatiently.

Henry’s eyes listed to the side. That was weird. He blinked. Shook his head. Touched his temple.

“Tired,” he said. “I don’t…” He trailed off. 

Hrm, that was a little worrisome. “Okay. You just sit, Henry, an’ I’ll fix the machine. You tell me what to do.”

It was really impressive how fast Henry responded to that advice. He really just collapsed, almost immediately. It wasn't like Henry had ever followed suggestions or orders so speedily before. Then Bendy frowned. He'd really hit the floor pretty hard.

“Um. Henry?” 

The animator didn’t respond. At all. 

“Is he sleepin’?” Bendy directed at Sammy. The ink blob that was Sammy groaned and bubbled.

“Yer useless,” Bendy muttered, and stomped over to Henry, shaking him. “Hey, wake up! How am I supposed to know if you’re getting better if you do somethin’ like that? Was that on purpose, or nah?"

Henry’s eyes were closed. He was breathing, but it was a shallow, fluttering thing, like a moth with crushed wings. Heart beat, pulse - that indicated life - Bendy’s fingers wrapped tight around Henry’s wrist. 

Yes! He had a heart beat! He was still alive. 

“Mmuuhh.” 

Bendy whipped around. Sammy’s sludgy body had oozed closer, his loose jaw hanging. 

“Sammy, you stay away from Henry. I’m takin’ care of him. I’ll make sure he’s okay-“ Food, water. Earlier Sammy had said humans needed those things, right? That Henry needed them to recover?

Well, water - they got all kinds of water! 

Bendy scrambled to the pipe currently attached to his machine. He danced in place, debating how exactly to detach it, before electing to just kick the thing. With a pop and grating metal noise, the pipe burst free.

Yelping, Bendy skittered back from the water surging from the mouth of the pipe. 

For half a second, Bendy thought about jamming the entire pipe in Henry’s mouth - that had _better_ hydrate him - then he recalled how Sammy had drank from the bucket Bendy had provided earlier. Sammy had just sipped from it lightly, despite saying he was really thirsty… Maybe humans only needed a _little_ water. Made sense - the stuff was pretty much toxic.

“Okay, Henry, I got ya covered,” Bendy told him, “just - sit up a sec and-“ It was easy enough to tug Henry’s lifeless body into a sitting position, once he used the wall as a prop. The whites of his eyes showed under his eyelids. His mouth hung slightly open. “Perfect. I’ll get’cha some water real quick-“

For his creator, he was willing to sacrifice a little. Biting his lip, Bendy stuck his hands under the flow. Almost immediately, it began to eat through his ink. He had to hurry. Bendy did his best to cradle the liquid as he rushed it to Henry and tilted his hands. Most of the water missed its mark (some dripping straight through Bendy’s palm) but some slipped past Henry’s parted lips. 

Soon it was all gone, either into Henry’s mouth or down his front. 

Bendy waited. 

No response. 

“Well, I gave him water,” Bendy told Sammy matter-of-factly. “Is that all he needed? Was that enough?”

Sammy moaned. 

“We really gotta get that whole no-talking thing fixed,” Bendy sighed. “Maybe he’s okay? Just gettin’ in a nap?”

Water dribbled from Henry’s lips. The animator’s body wracked with a harsh cough. 

“Henry! Are ya back?” But nope, Henry slumped against the wall again, drooling water.

“Gross. Henry, you’re a mess!” 

He surely needed more water, if he kept spitting up everything that Bendy had given him. “You’re real needy,” Bendy complained as he bolted back to the pipe. Water was spilling all over the floor, and Bendy had to step gingerly around it to avoid puddling himself. This was getting dangerous. One more handful of water for Henry, and then he’d re-attach the proper pipe somehow, get ink back in the machine like it should be. 

Bendy stuck his reformed hands under the broken spigot, and bolted back to Henry. More water poured down his throat, with only a little bit of ink. Bendy forced Henry’s mouth shut and held it there. “Now you swallow,” he instructed, happy to know how this whole process worked so that he could help Henry out even when Henry was too busy sleeping to do it himself. Henry’s throat worked, something in it bobbing. Maybe that was him swallowing? Bendy grinned. Look, he could take care of Henry just fine!

Then Henry’s body spasmed violently. Bendy had seen the motion before - Joey, in his wheelchair, when he threw up everything inside him. Henry was trying to expel the water! 

“Nah-ah,” Bendy said firmly, pinning Henry’s head to the wall, a hand firmly wrapped around his mouth. He had some idea now about how easily bones could break, so he made sure to keep his grip just a little weaker than that. Luckily, this was plenty to keep Henry still even as the animator repeatedly made that spasming, retching sort of motion. 

“He really didn’t wanna drink,” Bendy muttered. “Sammy, how long is this s’pposed to last?”

Sammy moaned piteously. 

Thankfully, Bendy didn’t have to long to find out: Henry gave a few last jolts, and then he went still. 

“Good,” Bendy said, removing his hands. “Now you sit here and -“ Wait. 

Bendy tilted his head to the side, watching carefully. 

Henry wasn’t moving, and that wasn't really surprising, if he was sleeping. But he wasn’t _breathing_ , either. Bendy was positive humans were supposed to breathe, even when sleeping. That's something Sammy had taught him to keep an eye out for. “Henry. Henry!”

His palm thudded onto Henry’s chest. Although there was a heartbeat, it was stuttering and weak, getting slower.

Bendy snarled. What? He had just watered Henry! And the guy was clearly getting plenty of sleep. Why despite that was he still dying? "Stupid, fragile-"

Slower, slower, slower. 

_No_. Henry wasn’t going to die, not on his watch. And sure, maybe Bendy hadn’t perfected the method yet, but - it had saved Sammy. And it was going to save Henry, too. 

“You don’t get t’escape that easy,” Bendy growled as ink flowed from his hands to Henry’s body, making flesh disappear beneath a webbing of ink. The glistening liquid slithered up his nostrils, and into his throat and ear drums. He was warm and wet inside, disappointingly similar to Wally and Sammy (shouldn't Henry have something different and special inside him?), but Bendy didn’t linger on it. He needed to focus.  Henry was stuffed with organs, just like the others: there was barely room for ink. But under Bendy's will, more crammed in, spilling in every empty space, and when there was no more room, he speared through the wet walls, flooding into Henry’s body cavities. Henry’s heart livened by the will of the ink, a staccato thumping, jittery and fast. Organs weirdly seized and squelched as they blackened.

On the outside, Henry’s flesh boiled and dripped. His bones stretched, snapped, stretched.

“Ah, crud,” Bendy muttered. “Just, hold on, I can fix it-“ This was _hard._ But he wanted Henry to turn out right, better than Sammy and Susie had. 

Bone bathed in blood protruded violently from either side of Henry’s skull.  Finally the animator snapped back to life, panic in his face. “Bendy, he gasped, and then groaning, hunched over, clutching the sides of his head. “Bendy, stop it, stop-“

“Hush, I gotta focus.”

The bones melted as if softened by acid. In their weaker state, they morphed, arching up over Henry’s head as ink oozed from the marrow and began to dribble down. 

“’s only fittin’,” Bendy said. “You’re real special to me, Henry, so you’re the only who deserves t’look like me.” 

Henry’s hand puffed up and paled, swollen-white, not unlike a bee sting; his pinkie finger vanished into the thickness of his ring finger. “S-stop,” Henry gagged, spitting up ink. “God, Bendy, stop, _stop, st-sh-“_ The words ended in a hiss as his teeth dripped from his skull. 

“Shoot,” Bendy muttered. “Henry, stop movin’ so much, it’s making it harder t’tell what’s what-“

Ink slid in globs from Henry’s gaping mouth, which was widening unnaturally, melting up up up into a big grin. All his hair disappeared into his skull, drowned out by thick gelatinous ink. 

Then - then it was done.

Bendy pulled away. Henry was…. Sort of like Bendy. But sort of like a human, too. Somewhere between, in a way that did neither any favors. 

“Well,” Bendy said, “Was just a first try. I think ya look pretty good, all things considered! Alice’n Sammy didn’t turn out half so nice.”

Henry stood up staggeringly tall, and stumbled back on spindly legs.

“Don’t he look great, Sammy?” Bendy asked.

“Ugnh.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself!” 

Henry raised his long arms. Thick pulpy fingers dug furrows down his horns and cheeks. His smile was fixated on his face, unchanging. His fingers came away dripping ink. Henry’s grin vibrated. 

 “Now you’re ink,” Bendy continued, “so there's none of that dyin’ business. Aren’t ya grateful, Henry?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya all,
> 
> I recently started a NSFW Bendy and the Ink Machine Discord server. Please join if you're interested! 
> 
> https://discord.gg/BuCvthw


	31. Henry

Henry stared at fingers that weren’t human, attached to arms that couldn't be his. His mind wouldn't connect the pieces: wouldn't accept that these limbs were his own. They were wrong, unreal, impossible. And yet - when his brain sent the signal, the bulbous fingers before his eyes clenched, as did the spindly more human hand. He could _feel_ them, one pudgy and bonelessly soft; one closer to normal but _dripping_. His stomach churned.

Everything was dripping. His very flesh sloughed off like thousands of little bugs crawling and writhing and dropping to the floor. He even felt each drop’s descent from his body, felt the splashes against the ground, winced infinitesimally at each. Where was _he_ under this? Where was the body he knew? This sludgy, towering mess left him disoriented, disturbed. The floor was dizzyingly far away; the ceiling oddly close. His feet- they were malformed, felt pressure in all the wrong spots. There was a heart buried under the pounds of ink, but even it was sordid, twisted and warped to _his_ will. When Henry touched his face, fingers sank into flesh. No, no - it wasn’t flesh: he knew that. This was ink. _He_ was ink.

Self-loathing consumed him. This wasn't him. This sickening body, it was all wrong - he wanted the ink off, _now_. Hell, he didn’t want to touch ink again in his life. He wouldn't ever draw, he wouldn't ever write if he could avoid it, he didn’t care, he’d throw everything away he just _wanted the ink off him now_. Mismatched fingers began to wildly tear at his face, _get it off get it off!_ only to rip long clumps of himself away. His oozing face glued to his fingers, then strung in the air like long strands of Christmas lights. The human impulse to scream rose, but his mouth was cemented shut in a grin that stretched all the way up his cheeks and he couldn’t change that, couldn't even frown -

_GET IT OFF_

Then pieces of his face were blending with his fingers and his chest as he ripped at his own torso (it barely even hurt) he had to get it off, he had to -

His soft fingers burrowed into his bow tie, and he felt that, too, as an extension of his body. He wrested it free and it dripped between his fingers with everything else. Just as easily, new ink bled out from his body, and the bow materialized again, pristine white.

Henry wanted to scream again. He wanted to die. But he could feel it. The agelessness. The _energy_. Like he’d never be tired again, even though he was so exhausted in his mind. His heart beat, and it wasn’t ever going to stop. No reprieve of exhaustion, sleep, or death. No human mechanisms to prevent against horror, shock or revulsion. This abysmal existence - this is how it was now. His long arms drooped to his sides as he swayed in place hopelessly. Much in the way that Bendy suffused any room with a _wrongness_ , Henry knew he now did too. He was a monster.

His big head swerved. Sammy. So small and hunched and deformed. Henry didn’t even feel pity. He couldn't deal with empathizing, not right now. For the first time in a long time, he felt only for himself - an infinite, nameless horror.

 _This isn’t fair_ , he screamed in his head. _I didn’t deserve this._

He railed at a God that wasn’t there. He’d only ever tried to be good. He’d only ever wanted the best for people. He’d tried to be patient. He’d tried to be helpful. He'd done nothing to deserve this. It was selfish to think that way, barring on childish, but he couldn't help it, not now. He'd had Linda. Oh God, he’d had everything. A small home, a beautiful fiancé, a job. A future. The idea of all of that being gone, wiped completely, was descending upon him. Even the smallest of things brought surges of agony and longing. Even something so simple as sunlight and rain. Would he ever experience them again? If he only had spent less time in the studio, if he had just looked up from his work for once to treasure the world he was in -

And now, now he wouldn't get the chance, ever again. He could feel Bendy’s grip on this body. He wasn’t sure he could ever leave the studio. And if he did… if he did, he’d never belong. Never be normal. He’d be this abomination. 

His huge head swerved again.

Bendy was frowning up at him, so so much smaller, but like this, Henry could better feel the power that radiated from him and the machine behind him. Fear was still ever present in his heart. “Oh, now you’re listenin’!” The demon yelled. “Jeez, Henry, this ain’t the time t’be havin’ an existential crisis!”

This wasn’t fair.

Bendy waved his arms wildly. “If you’re done freakin’ out - the room’s kinda flooding, Henry!”

It was. The ruptured pipe continued to spew all over the floorboards. Bendy was sidling further and further away from the spreading water.

“C’mon Henry,” Bendy growled, “how do I stop it?”

Henry knew the valve on the pipe would stop it instantly. But Bendy didn’t know that. And Henry didn’t need to share it. Rebellion unfurled in his chest, hot and angry. Maybe Henry was done for. Maybe he had no future. That was that. He couldn't help that, not anymore, not as this monster. But if he could do anything… he’d stop Bendy from having any future, too.

“Henry, ya don’t have to talk, just-“ Bendy yelped and skittered away from the water lapping at his feet. “ _Show_ me what t’do - I didn’t get ya just for the kicks!”

But Henry didn’t make a single move. He was quietly, intently furious. _You took everything from me._ From Wally, too, and the others that hadn’t made it out and never would. Henry wrapped his arms around his body, hating how the ink rubbed together, mixing up what was what. He was slimy and disgusting and inhuman. He didn’t want this existence: it was no choice at all to trade it for death, especially if he might bring the very same thing to Bendy.

Bendy’s tail lashed. He couldn't know what Henry was thinking, but the former animator’s lack of any movement had to convey _something._ Bendy's frustration mounted as he cam to terms with the fact he couldn't  _make_ Henry listen to him. Couldn't force him to do a task when the demon himself didn't know exactly what task needed to be accomplished.

“Fine,” Bendy finally snapped. “I’ll - I’ll do it without ya- I’ll get someone else!” In a flash, he’d darted out of the room, leaving Henry stunned. He’d anticipated the demon fussing over the machine until such time as the water flooded it entirely (and maybe drowned Bendy with it, good riddance). Instead he was left alone with the lump that once had been Sammy.

Henry swayed in a thoughtless stasis before it occurred to him  _I should follow him. Stop him from hurting anyone else._ But one lurching step and he realized that was dumb. He wouldn't ever catch up, and once he did, what could he do? Absolutely nothing. There was no doubt in his mind that Bendy was still much more powerful than him, and that if Henry tried to interrupt, the demon was likely to incapacitate him again. He'd be useless following Bendy. But maybe there was something he could do _here_.  

Henry’s large head turned to the machine. The thing mattered a great deal to Bendy, clearly. Enough that Bendy got panicked over it, more than Henry had ever seen him. If the machine really was Bendy’s weakness…

Henry cast one disdainful, grinning look at Sammy, as if silently asking whether the former music director would try to stop him. But Sammy was barely formed, mouth gaping, hardly even sentient or conscience. Henry doubted he would get trouble from Sammy - and if he did, what did it matter? Henry was beyond the point of caring if he was hurt or killed. All he wanted, with every fiber of his being, was to destroy Bendy.

Resolved, he plunked one foot into the water. He expected the stuff to eat away at him as soon as he touched it, same as it did for Bendy. While this was partly true (it corroded his flesh, lapped away strands of his lumpy feet), it did not rip him apart nearly so well as it had Bendy. Perhaps the formerly human nature provided some protection. He could endure it, if it meant inflicting harm upon the demon. Another step brought him right up to the machine.

Nothing had ever inspired Henry Stein to truly _hate_ before. But now - oh now, he boiled with hatred. His two very different hands came down on the piping of the machine; using a strength he’d never had before, he wrenched on the pipe. Metal screeched, sharp in a way that resonated awfully with the ink of his body, but he would not be deterred. Soon he’d torn free a scrap of metal, which he threw to the floor. He seized another part, then another, another, mutilating the machine beneath his now much stronger hands. _I hope you like this, you demon._ It was laughably effortless, now that Bendy had given him this powerful form.

More metal twisted and shrieked, almost as if a living thing, as Henry systematically dismantled the machine.

He twisted around to cast aside another machine part when he saw Sammy, undulating at the edge of the growing pool of water, moaning distressed noises. But the water sapped at his body like it did Bendy’s, eating away whatever of him that touched it. He couldn't do anything.

Back to the machine. He had to destroy it. His hands clamped down once more when a screech thundered down the hallway.

Bendy.

Good. Let _him_ be angry, let _him_ be hurt -

“What are you doing?” Bendy shrieked.

Henry’s inky heart thudded with an old, deep-rooted terror. He began to rip apart the machine faster, frantically. Do as much damage before Bendy rent him apart. 

“ _Stop it_!” The scream deepened into a bone-shaking snarl unbefitting of the small form Bendy normally assumed - in the corner of his vision, Henry glimpsed a mass of ink rushing at him, much _much_ larger than Bendy normally was. Henry ducked his head - _destroy as much of it as possible before he-_

 The ink hit him like a thousand pounds; his hands ripped away from the machine and the world went topsy-turvy. His skull cracked against the watery floor; ink splattered and swirled in little currents. Dizzily, Henry looked up and glimpsed teeth inches from his face. Enormous dripping teeth which parted into a maw that could swallow humans whole.

Bendy was _huge_ , a four-legged skeletal beast, and his fury practically bled into the air.

 _Good_ , Henry thought fiercely, _at least I did something before I died._

But Bendy’s head cast to the side, like a ship lurched by a particularly hard wave. A distressed noise rumbled from his throat. As Henry half-sat up, confused, Bendy’s shoulders also lurched to the side. He realized why, then. Bendy was standing in the water, now, and it was eating away at his legs. Snarling, Bendy flailed his limbs in an effort to right himself, but it was a losing battle, his form sucking down into the liquid, feet dissolving into nothing, ink swirling in eddies. 

The noise he made was animalistic. His body shrank and shrank, until it collapsed on itself entirely. The sloughed ink spilled on Henry’s chest, and from the mess emerged Bendy - this time in the small form that Henry recognized, with his tail tucked under him and his eyes wide and terrified. He clung to Henry’s chest, eyeing the rising water on either side. “Henry, c’mon, please-” he pleaded, “ya can’t let me go this way -”

He could. Easily. Henry drew his long arms out of the water - even dripping, they didn’t dissolve away like Bendy. He seized Bendy’s tiny form, and shoved him into the water. Bendy squealed and thrashed like a wet cat.

Little teeth sank into Henry’s hand, but that wasn’t going to get Henry to let go. He’d suffered much worse torments than teeth grinding to his bones, and no matter how much it hurt, he only clung tighter. What Henry couldn’t account for was Bendy’s ability to transform or contort his body, and that was the demon’s next defense, slipping through Henry’s fingers as nothing more than shapeless ink. Henry grabbed at him again, but it was too late - Bendy splashed and flailed pathetically away, struggling as every touch of water tugged strands of his body free.

Finally he ended up outside the perimeter of the water, miserable and dripping. The globby mass of Sammy oozed closer, as if in comfort, but he could do nothing. Bendy seemed to be panting, which was odd, because the demon hadn’t even been breathing when they first met - Henry had the impression he had no _need_ to. But as Henry sat up from the water, and glanced at the ruined machine, he wondered with a spark of daring hope if Bendy wasn’t gaining needs - _weaknesses_ \- that he hadn’t had before. The thought made Henry bizarrely giddy.

He swung his gaze back to Bendy, his grin vibrating. He wished he could say something to rub salt into the wound, but his teeth were sealed shut; he said nothing.

Bendy cast a look of betrayal and fury. "I'm gonna get you back, creator," he hissed. Before Henry could do anything else, Bendy seized Sammy. The both of them collapsed into the floor, leaving slithering tendrils of ink that drained after them until there was nothing left.

Then… then there was just the gushing of water from the spout, and silence. 


	32. Joey, Allison, Henry

Henry had entirely lost his mind. There was nothing to be done about it, Joey figured as he painstakingly made his way down the hall. There’d been a monster blocking the way to the emergency exit. Instead of running like a rational man, Henry had done nothing. Just standing there like an absolute idiot staring as if he’d glean any useful information from a _beast that wanted to kill them._

And Joey understood, really - those things could freeze any man in terror! But no matter how much Joey had yelled at him or tugged him, Henry hadn’t budged, and that monster had only been oozing closer and closer. Either the monster got them both, or one of them would do the wise thing and get the hell out of there.

So well.

Joey did the wise thing.

He tried repeatedly to assure himself of this, that leaving Henry was a good idea. If anyone asked, if would be very very easy to make convincible - after all, it was true. They were together, encountered a monster, and then it was too late for Henry. Nobody could pin it on Joey. As for the explanation of the monsters…

Joey’s brain did gymnastics over itself as he struggled to think of excuses. If nobody else escaped the studio it might be easier to explain away… some sort of gas leak, wasn’t that what Henry suggested before? He would think of something… he couldn't come away with guilt on his shoulders, he couldn't bear that. And Henry - Henry was a lost cause!

Joey rubbed his temple and leaned against the wall. The tremors coursing through his body were becoming more prominent; sharp pains flared in his joints and his legs were beginning to feel numb in places. This was the most normal of anything that had happened today. His condition was beginning to catch up with him. Today had been nothing but running, walking, hiding - it was a miracle he’d made it this far without his wheelchair, something he chalked up to pure adrenaline (and having others’ help getting around).

He needed - needed his wheelchair, back in his office. The thought swept in new, fresh fear, because -

Allison knew. That infernal demon had told her.

He needed to destroy any evidence. And if the time came, somehow destroy her. Not - not kill her, no, Joey couldn't take a life. He didn’t want to hurt anybody, not truly. But if Bendy were to take care of things… yes, maybe that would be how.

Joey forced himself to walk onward, his thoughts a scattered mess. Wheelchair, pictures. The emergency exit was likely not an option, not with that hideous beast (Henry had called her Susie - no, don’t think about it) in the way. But perhaps the original exit was clear?

At last he reached his office; he practically collapsed behind his desk, conjuring a key and unlocking the lowest drawer (which he had carefully locked after Bendy got in earlier). He withdrew the stack of pictures - some particularly frightened bit of him urged him to destroy them, burn them or soak them in ink. But he couldn’t. Each picture had a face, that he remembered so well and cherished -

No, he wouldn't destroy them. Not unless he had to.

Joey tucked them swiftly into his pocket. Now to escape. And sink Allison, if he could manage that.

 

 

 

Allison entered first; peeking her head around the door frame.

A very large part of her expected to see Sammy collapsed on the floor, the axe still grotesquely jutting from his body. She had been bracing herself for the sight. Instead, the foyer was absolutely empty. No Bendy, no Sammy. Nothing but huge splatters on the floor, some rusted red, some black, most mixing the two. The sight turned her stomach and set her on edge, even more than if she had seen Sammy’s corpse. At least his body would have indicated something normal - a man gets axed in the chest, and he dies. That was how things went in real life. It was a sick sort of reassurance, but a reassurance nonetheless, and not getting it made Allison very nervous. If he wasn’t dead, or wasn’t here at least, then where was he? Where was Bendy?

The smear of ink and blood, very much like a body had been dragged, disappearing into a hallway gave a pretty good indication.

“Is he there?” Tom whispered behind her.

“No. I don’t know where he is.”

She slunk past the doorframe, half expecting Bendy to jump out from any shadow. But there was nothing. Silence, deep and unsettling. Her eyes lingered on the hall those smudges trailed down. She waved Thomas in; he shut the door softly behind him.

“Shit,” he whispered, following her gaze.

“Yeah.”

Those stains led to the Ink Machine room.

“The machine’s not working,” Thomas said softly.

“Wh-?” Allison cut herself off, listening. Thomas was right. There wasn’t any thumping noises behind the walls, no rattling or anything. What she could hear was the very distant sound of rushing water.

“Do you think he detached the water pipe?” She whispered.

“If he’s fixing it,” Thomas replied grimly. “This is a bad idea. We should go.”

Allison hovered in the foyer, mulling over his sentiments. Then, “no. Either the water killed him and we have nothing to worry about, or… or he’s still around.”

“And then we have a lot to worry about.”

“And then people need help,” Allison corrected. She could hear no other noises from the Ink Machine room, and for a few heartbeats she considered sneaking down the hallway for a peek - something to indicate how screwed or not they were. But she thought better of it. If Bendy was indeed in there, she wasn’t going to run the risk of being seen.

“Come on, this way.” She waved him down a different hallway, though she didn’t have the slightest idea where anyone might be anymore. There had to be a more practical way to go about this, rather than just wandering at random….

“Thomas, what about the intercom system?”

“What?”

“The intercom. If we could somehow contact everyone, tell them to go to the exit -“

Thomas shook his head. “As soon as we alert people, Bendy will know too.”

She hadn’t thought of that. “If we could communicate in a way he wouldn't understand…”

“What, in mandarin? He’s going to figure out whatever message we try to send, or nobody will.”

Allison knotted her fingers. He was right, of course. The last thing she wanted to do was to give away everyone’s location to the demon. She ducked around another corner, delving deeper and deeper into the studio. There was nobody around… Maybe Bendy had already gotten to them? No… most likely everyone was hiding. Perhaps on lower floors. Allison shuddered to think of getting trapped, several floors beneath the machine and the exit, if the thing was to start pumping again.

As she crept along, a voice whispered behind her, “Allison?”

She whirled around, heart pounding, and Thomas yelped. At first she saw nothing.

Then, “that really you?” the voice said.

It was then that she saw him, hunched in a small alcove. Norman. A tower of man, who nearly always slunched. During recordings, he would spend most of his time lurking quietly in the back of the room, and he’d ghost in and out nearly without notice.

“Norman,” Allison said in relief. She had never had a particular attachment to the man, who did little but watch the going-ons of the studio and manage the projector, but he was a friendly (more importantly, human) face. “Norman, are you okay?”

Norman’s pale eyes were darting about, looking everywhere except for her own line of sight. “Ain’t nothing happened to me,” he said. “But I seen things. I seen a lot of things.”

“Bendy?” Thomas pried. “Did you see him?”

Norman nodded mutely.

“What about others?” Allison asked, “other workers? Where can we find them?”

Norman shook his head. “Most ran deeper in the studio but I - I stayed here. He don’t notice me here.”

“Okay. Okay.” Allison glanced over her shoulder. “We’re still close to the exit. Norman, we’re going to get you out of here.”

Norman tensed up almost immediately, his big shoulders hunching close to his jaw. “Oh, no, I ain't moving. The devil is waiting there.”

“He’s not anymore. We were just by the exit.”

“Can we not stand in the hallway?” Thomas said lowly. “Puts me on edge.”

Allison nodded, and grabbed Norman’s arm. “C’mon. The way is clear, I promise. Bendy’s by the machine.”

Norman at first dug his heels in, shaking his head, but at her insistence, he stumbled after her with reluctant wariness. They wound back to the first floor, past a slew of closed doors, past another that was open with a dozen projectors piled up in it.

“I wish I had that axe,” Thomas muttered, flinching at every shadow.

“Shh.”

Better not to make noise. The Ink Machine room was far too close to the exit. It would be much too easy for Bendy to come slinking out and find them. At every moment Allison half-expected it; her skin crawled with terrified energy, and her heart was fit to burst out of her chest. She rolled her steps to be quieter over the old floorboards, but the three of them still couldn't disguise their movements entirely.

It was almost too easy, but they made it back to the blood and ink stained foyer.

“Is that-?” Norman stalled, eyes fixated on the discoloration.

“Yep,” Allison shoved him forward grimly. “Just ignore it.”

They shuffled him to the door. Allison turned the knob. Despite the machine being off, she still felt a swoop of fear in her chest that the door wouldn’t open. It would do some ridiculous cartoon thing like rolling up, or disappearing, or opening to another smaller door -

She breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened to a cool night breeze. The sky had by now darkened, stars sparkling overhead, and the noises of the city dwindled. The air was refreshing, soothing, and she felt a tug in her chest. She wanted to leave this nightmare studio and put it all behind her. But there was a lot more people left.

Norman hesitated in the doorway. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I wish,” Thomas said.

“No,” Allison replied. “We have to get more people. But you go. And um, you’ll probably need to find a new job.”

She shoved out a very confused-looking Norman and snapped the door in his face.

“Maybe we should le-“

“No.” Allison turned back, heart thudded. “Look, we don’t have save everybody, just - at least a few more, Thomas.”

He nodded, face white as a sheet. Allison tread down the short hallway filled with little posters, innocently declaring episode titles. The sight of them only twisted in her gut, now. It was at the end of the hall that she stopped, chewing her lip. She could still distantly hear water rushing, and yet again, nothing else.

“What if he’s not by the machine anymore?” She whispered to Thomas.

Thomas met her gaze uneasily.

“What if we were able to destroy the machine?” She added.

Thomas shook his head. “We can’t know if he’s there or not.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“It’s at the end of the hallway, of course you can’t. C’mon.” He waved her away; she followed reluctantly. It was clear Bendy hadn’t been entirely defeated by running the Ink Machine with water… If they were able to physically dismantle it… maybe then -

Jumping at shadows and skirting around corners, Thomas and Allison eventually located a new group of poor souls - surviving band members, as well as a few folks from the up and coming toy workshop. None of them knew anything about where others in the studio might be, none knew where Bendy might be. The band members seemed to be in numb shock, while the others that had not met Bendy were just confused and scared. Allison could imagine that seeing the studio change and warp without any context would be awful.

At any rate, Thomas and Allison routed them from the lower floor and shuffled them back out the front door.

“Yes, yes, we’ll be right after,” Allison assured them.

Then the door closed on the beautiful night sky, and they were digging back through the studio, timeless and always lit by glowing sodium lights.

 

 

 

There was no doubt - both Sammy and Bendy were gone, the devil only knew where.

Henry lurched unsteadily to his feet in a series of splashes, still gawky on the legs that refused to feel right. He considered attacking the machine again, but one look at the gutted device convinced him that the thing wasn’t going to be repaired very quickly or easily. _Did I really do that?_ he wondered, having trouble attributing all that twisted metal to the strength and will of his own hands. It settled, cold and heavy in his stomach, the idea that he could cause so much destruction in so little time and with so little thought.

But… that wasn’t important right now. There were other things to worry about. Bendy was somewhere else in the studio now - somewhere recovering and plotting. Henry was sure that, given enough time, Bendy would conjure a way to fix the machine. He had to stop him.

Henry slogged out of the water, leaving behind little bits of himself that diluted into the liquid and vanished from his consciousness. As soon as he started moving, he knew he wasn’t going to make it anywhere fast, not on the bent twisted excuses for legs he had now. That sent fresh anger coursing through him ( _you took everything from me_ -). Already he was dead sick of hatred, but he had no power to stop feeling that way. Not after everything that demon had done. 

Henry dragged his useless feet under him as he left the room, swinging his head left and right as if to find some trace of Bendy. The studio was that thing’s playground. He could be anywhere. Henry halted in place briefly, contemplating. His guess was as good as anyone’s-

Then, with another furl of rage, _Joey_. Joey might have a guess. He’d brought the demon here. He’d known how to summon it, somehow. Maybe he had some idea where Bendy was headed now.

But Joey had been heading towards the exit last Henry saw him- He’d been turned around upon meeting what had become of Susie, so Henry could easily guess that Joey’s cowardice would have kept him away from the exit but…. Fear wouldn’t have delayed him forever.

Decided, Henry turned towards the emergency exit and Joey’s desk. His slow, plodding movements aggravated him, his leg twisting with every step. His heart, which felt much too human, thudded rapidly in a panic he hadn’t fully realized - the panic at being trapped in these walls like this, for - for how long? An eternity? -

He refused to dwell on it consciously. And when he finally glimpsed Joey, the panic swept away immediately. Joey hadn’t left yet after all.

The studio owner was settled in his wheelchair, and was just turning the corner away from his office, when he saw Henry, and the wheels stopped.

Henry saw all the color leave Joey’s face. For a second the two were frozen, gazing at each other, and then Joey’s knobby fingers scrabbled to get the wheelchair moving again.

_No!_

Henry dove at Joey; his bulbous hand slammed down on one wheel, fingers snaring in the spokes to hold it in place. Joey cowered and outright whimpered, trapped.

Henry couldn't help a visceral rush at Joey’s terror. Joey, after all, had abandoned Henry more than once; had always leeched credit for the work they did; and was responsible for this entire nightmare in the first place. There inevitably was some satisfaction in making him tremble. In fact, the impulse struck to really shake Joey up - nothing harmful, just enough to teach him a lesson-

It was this thought that stopped Henry.

Joey was his _friend_.

Yes, he’d done horrible things, but unleashing Bendy had been an _accident_. As for everything else - he didn’t deserve to get hurt. Henry knew this. Hell, he’d forgiven Joey time and time again because… well, Joey often went through very dark mental spells. Only Henry knew that about him, that he suffered from crushing self-esteem problems, and seemingly senseless but overpowering bursts of guilt and terror. Only Henry knew that there was more to Joey, and that half of Joey’s confident bullshit was just the man _trying_ to be okay. _Trying_ to get better. Which was something Henry had always admired. 

None of these things warranted hurting Joey. And the man now looked petrified, struggling even to breathe with Henry’s proximity. No wonder. Henry realized what sort of image he must make, fingers wound in the spokes as he leaned menacingly over Joey’s cowering form. He released the chair immediately.

That… confirmed something Henry had been frightened of, but too afraid to face. While the recent circumstances certainly could have provoked one to attack, this level of aggression - it wasn’t at all like him. Henry the animator had responded to stressors mostly by aversion - withdrawing from people and going quiet until he had had time to process. Lashing out - that wasn’t him. So his physical body wasn’t the only thing Bendy had corrupted.

“Bendy,” Joey gasped raspily, still scrunched in his chair ready for Henry to attack. “Bendy, I-I’m s-so sorry, god, please don’t kill me -“

Now that Henry was aware of some kind of psychological change, he could manage it. He could overrule inherent aggression with logic. He had to stay himself, no matter what, in whatever way he could… in whatever ways that _demon_ had left him with.

Joey rambled on, “what I did - I didn’t mean any of it, I didn’t want any of it, I tried to stop-“

What?

… Henry needed a way to communicate.

“Please, just let me go, I’ll change-“ Joey pleaded.

Henry swooped closer and grabbed the handles of Joey’s chair.

“Um,” Joey squeaked as he was towed backwards, “Uh, B-Bendy where are we going?”

Henry dragged Joey’s chair back into his office. He wheeled him beside his desk, where Henry then slammed drawers open and shut. Ah. A stack of blank papers. Just what he needed.

Henry slapped one onto the desk, already spattered in black from his touch. Maybe no point in getting a pen, not when his entire body was ink… First things first. Henry used the tip of one finger to messily scrawl out I AM HENRY

It took up the entire page, and Henry still had room amongst all his emotions to feel humiliated and frustrated that this is what he was reduced to. A former animator, and now he couldn’t even write three words without them looking like a child’s scribble.

Henry shoved the paper at Joey.

Joey’s gaze rotated from the paper to Henry and back again, then again.

Henry gestured impatiently at himself. He really couldn't make this any clearer.

Joey’s lips curved up in an anxious, twitching smile. “I-is this a joke?”

Henry growled and snatched another paper. BENDY he started, then dripped on the page as he thought. He had to grab a third paper to add DID THIS

“You’re Henry?” Joey said.

Henry bobbed his head in something like a nod.

"But -" Joey stuttered, "that monster in the hallway - it killed Henry - didn't it?"

Susie? Why did he think  _Susie_ had killed him; Henry was fairly certain that Susie, like him, had no ill-will. She'd been tortured, maimed into an inky miserable mass. Then again, Joey had run off before Bendy had shown up and stomped her to death. 

"H-how-?"

Henry pointed at the recent paper, BENDY DID THIS. 

Joey stared. “God above, he turned you into him.”

N- Henry started, then stopped. It didn’t matter.

"Well I - I'm so relieved!" Joey declared. "Henry, you have no idea how worried I was. I thought you were dead! Err, again..."

This wasn't the point. Henry contemplated how to express to Joey that they needed to find Bendy.

But Joey continued on, "Well this, this is wonderful! Humans can do nothing against him but you - Henry, like that, who knows what you could do!”

Henry shook his head. He could nothing against Bendy, not truly. It was imminently obvious that he was a thing Bendy had created and could just as easily destroy. Henry had only gotten the upper hand in the Ink Machine room because he’d surprised the demon, and Bendy had already been distracted with trying to save the machine…

But Bendy was also weak, now. If there was any time to face him, now would be it. They just had to find him first.

“You need to have faith in yourself, that’s all,” Joey continued. “We can devise a plan, Henry. Find out where that demon is, and you go in, do what needs to be done - I’ll hang back, ch-“

Henry slammed his fist down on the desk; Joey zipped his mouth up real fast.

Silent, heavy as molasses, Henry reached for another paper. YOU brought him here. Summoned him. Whatever word Joey wanted for it. But Henry left the YOU on the paper and stared intently at Joey. If there was any information Joey had to help, anything at all. 

“If I knew how to defeat him, Henry, I would have. I flooded the machine, of course, but it didn’t kill him. I did everything a man could do! Perhaps he needs brute force. And that, Henry, that is your stage now-“

Henry slapped the YOU page on Joey’s lap.

Joey looked left and right. Anywhere but at Henry. “I-“ he threw up his arms helplessly. “Henry, I swear, I wish I could help, but there is nothing in my power to do-“ His hands dropped, trembling, into his lap.

Another paper. FIND HIM?

“To kill him?” Joey prompted.

Henry wrote nothing more, and Joey scratched at his arms. “I may know something useful. If - if you can’t find where he is, I-“

Henry’s grin vibrated, and Joey recoiled. “Please stay calm, ah, Henry-“

Henry aggressively tried to project calm, because terrifying Joey wasn’t going to help anything, but he didn’t know how to project anything _but_ terrifying in this form, so nothing really changed. He took a step back, hoping to seem less intimidating.

Joey cleared his throat. “It’s just - now that the current model is flooded, perhaps, ah, perhaps Bendy may be interested in the other Ink Machine. If you're looking for him, I would try that first.”

The

The _other_

_Other Ink Machine._

Joey hadn't made just  _one_ of those abominations. 

Joey's expression turned tight and nervous. “Ah - H-Henry, please, you have to understand. You don’t launch with your first draft, Henry, especially with a thing like that! Mixing magic and machinery, it’s - it’s complicated, unprecedented! You didn’t truly think that the machine you saw was the first, did you? These things, they - they take time, and ah, trials-“

Henry tore the next piece of paper with how fast he ripped it out. Then, trying to pacify himself ( _stay yourself)_ , he gently retrieved another piece of paper. HOW MANY he wrote.

Joey took a steadying breath. “Just three. Four including the main one.”

Four. Four Ink Machines.

“But - but-“ Joey input, “None of them are connected to the building the way the current model is. They’re all running on very small circuits, a room or two each - they’re much smaller too, Henry, I doubt he could draw much power from them at all-“

SHOW ME, Henry wrote.

Joey’s tongue seemed to trip over his teeth as he stared in dismay at the words. “Henry- Henry no- I can just as easily _tell_ you where in the studio they are-“

Henry shoved the SHOW ME paper into Joey’s hands, then grabbed the wheelchair handles and began to wheel him out of the office, while Joey protested and wailed.


	33. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people expressed interested in seeing Sammy and Susie's transformations. I did messily write both scenes a while back because they were going to be in the story itself, but they ended up getting cut. Here they be. Decided not to make this its own story so I dub it Intermission and stick it here.
> 
> .... Intermissions usually indicate the middle of something, don't they? I'm not ready if this is only the middle.

Susie

Alice Angel sang. And as she did, Bendy tapped his feet and wiggled and waved his tail. 

Yes, Alice could astound any crowd. When she got up on the stage, she _ruled_ it. 

Her confidence swelled. She poured her soul into the song, and let it ring out sweet and clear. For just a few moments, she could believe that everything _wasn’t_ going wrong. That she still belonged in this studio, was still Alice’s voice, and that she’d keep riding the cartoon’s success to fame. How seamlessly she seemed to blend with Alice at times like these, how perfectly _her_ she was. 

Then the song ended. The last few notes faded to nothing. Susie was left, panting slightly, and unable to help a wild, loose grin. That felt _good._

Bendy clapped enthusiastically. “Wowzers, you’re perfect for the role!”

Susie tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and straightened. “I _am_ the _original_ Alice Angel, after all.”

“Well,” Bendy said, “y’ain’t _really_ her. Luckily, I take people that aren’t exactly the characters, ‘cause-“ Bendy laughed. “I’m the only real one ‘round here.”

Rude. “Nobody is really the characters,” Susie sharply retorted, despite how much she’d really love to consider herself Alice. She hadn’t _entirely_ lost track of reality, thank you very much. “Not even you.”

“‘Course I am. Are ya blind?” Bendy gestured at himself. 

Susie’s regard was cold. “You have Bendy’s likeness, but it’s clear you don’t have his personality. At least I have a little of both with Alice.” That was something she prided herself on immensely.

“What do ya mean?” He said slowly. “I’m not like the Bendy in the cartoons?”

“You’re just a robot or - “ her certainty faltered. “Or something,” she finished lamely. 

A robot. Bendy nearly laughed. “I’m _Bendy,_ ” he iterated. “The devil darlin’ himself.”

“Sure,” she said, stepping off the stage. “Well, this has been fun, but an angel’s got places to be, people to see - namely, the band, if you’ll point a lady in the right direction.”

“Hey, wait-“ he grabbed her wrist; his touch was cold and unpleasant but unnervingly strong. Unnervingly _real._ “You’ll have plenty ‘a time to catch up with them later, when we all do an episode together. I got an idea in my head, watchin’ you sing… see, maybe we can fix ya after all!”

“Fix me?” Susie said frigidly, yanking out of his grasp.

“Make ya look more like Alice, y’know?” Bendy looked left and right then leaned in, putting a hand by his mouth and whispering, “t’tell the truth, I ain’t seen anybody that looks so much like their character! I bet we could carry ya all the way!”

“Don’t be silly,” Susie replied. She hated the traitorous little wiggle of hope in her chest. Such things _weren’t_ possible. Reality didn’t allow for her to change her appearance so thoroughly so as to look like Alice.

“Oh, it ain’t silly at all!” Bendy rubbed his hands together. “I got a pretty solid idea how t’go about it. Gotta say I haven’t really practiced, but with ink, you can make anything!"

Susie frowned. “All right, Bendy,” she said, applying her best Alice voice (which was already almost identical to her usual one, just with a different cadence). She put her hands on her hips and stared him down. “If you think you can make me look more like Alice, then how about you prove it?”

“I knew you’d be perfect for the role!” Without further delay, Bendy snatched the bottom of her dress in his hands. 

Oh. So _that_ was his motive. 

Outraged, Susie was about to tell him off when the words died in her mouth. His touch was… _changing_ her dress. It was hard to tell at first, because the fabric was black to begin with, but the more she watched the more she realized a deeper obsidian was spreading out from his hands. Where it touched her skin now, it was cold, cold as him, cold as death. 

“Wait-“ she said, high and tight. “Wait, stop-“

The cold dug into thighs like icy needles, scything only deeper and deeper, and wherever it spread, her skin began to soften.

“What are you doing!” Susie tore away, shoving off his grip. “Let go of me!” 

“Hey, whoa whoa-“ Bendy tried to scurry after her, but that hideous inky poison was still spreading and sinking deeper into her thighs. When she touched it in panic, her skin caved like a mud hole, leaving her fingers dotted with ink.

“Oh god, what’s happening!”

“Hold still!” Bendy tried to grab onto her again, but Susie was backing up uncontrollably, unable to rip her gaze from the darkness dripping down her thigh, her knees, her calves - oh god, it was crawling up her hips and abdomen too, she could feel it - 

“Get it off!” She raked at it with clawed hands; her own flesh and drippy tendrils of her dress came away strung between her fingertips like fungus.

“Alice,” Bendy growled, “It’s way easier if I’m touchin’ ya, I can’t do it so well like this-“

“Don’t get near me!” She howled, then, panicky, “make it stop, make it stop NOW!”

“I’m tryin’ t’help, if ya’d just hold still-“

Her legs felt like little but noodles as she wobbled on them, and then barely even that - they drooped and dripped and then Susie howled as they collapsed beneath her entirely in a puddle of muck. It was disgusting and horrifying and _all over her_ , splashing up her torso and _eating_ at her. 

“Shoot,” she heard Bendy say distantly, as ink crawled up her throat. “Alice, this ain’t even my fault-“

“MAKE IT STOP!” Her voice split and cracked. She opened her mouth to scream again but no words emerged; only ink bubbled up from her throat, and dribbled over her teeth. Her hands struck the ground and splattered, fingerless pooling liquid. Soaked hair strands fell over her melting face.

“Darn.”

She lifted her dripping head, her thoughts a syrupy mix. Everything hurt. 

Bendy crossed his arms and sighed. “Dangit, Alice, now look what ya made me do. You’re a mess!”

 

 

Sammy

 

Numbness splintered out from his chest, and with it came the shock that faces everyone on the brink of death. All sound warbled out of existences; his ears rang. There was an axe blade jutting inches out of his chest and his brain refused to wrap around this concept. 

_I am going to die_ , he thought. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. It all meant so absurdly little. 

The door slammed behind him and he barely noticed. His knees hit the floor. That too was nothing but background sensation. 

_I am going to die._ The end. 

_I don’t want to die._

The floor rushed up to meet him. 

_It doesn’t even hurt_ , he thought, bewildered. Then movement caught his drifting eyes. Bendy, coming closer. The demon. Sammy’s lips twitched, but no words rose. Bendy. Bendy could save him; Bendy could - Bendy - 

….

….

Ksdjfijif seijfij seojfoij 

Sdkjfjfjchhhh

“Sammy! The heck is wrong with ya, lettin’ yourself get hurt like that?”

Jjjhhhhhh 

“I give ya one simple task and ya can’t even do that? You were supposed t’look after Henry! And now I had t’come and save yer life!”

Mzjjhssssssammy Sammy Sammy

Sammy. Sammy. 

Everything was dark. _Where am I?_

“What kinda worshipper are ya supposed to be?”

That voice. It was familiar. It was _good._ But it was upset. Oh, very upset.

Fingers squelch into the darkness, and _drag_. Splinters and sticking and pulling. Leaving little bits behind.

“Look, you gotta help me with the machine, Sammy!”

Help? Yes, he wanted to help. He wanted to do whatever they asked. Only he could see nothing, and his body was a melting, sludgy mess that didn’t want to obey him. He _needed_ to help: desperation burned in him. He wanted to speak, to offer himself, but the voice, now further away, said with distress, 

“You gotta fix the pipe!” The voice wailed. “It’s floodin,’ Sam, _do_ something!”

He oozed towards the voice. Moving was difficult; his body unwieldy and drooping. But he had to. 

Other images fractured into his mind violently, images he couldn't make sense of. A knife slicing through pale flesh (his own flesh?). A woman with flowing blond hair, her smile, her voice. Music. 

Music.

He halted, swayed. In the deprivation of sight, he could nearly hear it. Tunes, melodies, (calloused fingers plucking strings, with the rich scent of hay and dust twirling in the air)

“Sammy!” 

His Lord. All things swept away with the rush of adoration. He forced his glumpy body nearer, a hand pulling out of the sticky ink to reach - it slapped against something cold and metal and hard.

“No, you idiot-“ Banging. Then, “fine. Fine - you stay here, Sammy, an’ I’ll get Henry…”

Silence.

Alone. Wobbling. Gelatinous and flawed. Falling apart (pieces still left behind). Longing. That voice must return. (Bendy).

Bendy, yes. 

A God. His touch had torn and dragged, but if he willed it, then so it should be. 

That was the only thing that made sense in this blind, dumb fog. There were other things, jumbled up and tossed around; shapes colors sounds sensations. Memories. But they were like torn pieces of paper floating in an enormous sea; each one’s colors muddied and blended into senselessness. 

Time didn’t exist like this. It could have been an eternity, paralyzed into something like non-existence. Only one desire burned in him, the desire to please and worship Bendy. He would wait. 


	34. Henry

“The nearest one is boarded up, not far from the elevators on floor 2…” Joey uttered weakly. He seemed to have surrendered himself to the fact he couldn't _stop_ Henry.

Henry turned the wheelchair in that direction, trying hard not to look at the dripping ink hands that clutched its handles. He didn’t want to look at himself at all.

“Look, Henry, I don’t need to come along,” Joey pleaded lowly. “I can just as easily tell you where they are, and then you can let me go-“

Henry didn’t like the way that Joey’s pleading felt like a human entreating a monster. It was a tone Joey never would have used with Henry prior to this transformation. How weird, now, to miss being talked _down_ to. Briefly, Henry wondered if he shouldn't do as Joey requested. If things went bad, then Joey had almost no chance of making it out. Guilt twisted in Henry’s stomach at the thought. But this _was_ Joey’s mistake in the first place, no matter how good his intentions were at the start. If Henry was stuck here having to see it to the end, then shouldn’t Joey-

Not to mention that Henry wasn’t sure he could find these machines on his own. 

(and he was scared of being alone, being monstrous and alone and so detached from humanity-)

“Please, Henry, my friend, you wouldn’t let that thing hurt me?”

Henry growled, if only to quiet Joey. His muteness frustrated him. His body disgusted him. He didn’t think there was any going back. This was forever, now. Again he nearly panicked, and again he shoved down the feelings.

He had to find Bendy. Finish this somehow. Then he could panic, and face the reality of existence. Only after everyone else was made safe. 

Henry clung tighter to Joey’s chair. He was sure it looked idiotic: his enormous malformed inky bodypushing along a human in a wheelchair. Joey would probably wheel along just fine without Henry’s help, not daring to escape, but… there was some twisted comfort in this. 

There were times before that he had assisted Joey getting from one place to another, times when Joey was jabbering away and writing or arranging something in his hands. So this simple action of pushing him was some semblance of normal. Of being human. Incongruous with being a monster. There was comfort, then, in doing something only a human would do. It might let him believe.

“You’re not going to let me go, are you?” Joey whimpered.

Another statement that Joey never would have said to Henry the animator. 

So many times Henry had wanted to stand up to Joey. How morbid now that now, Joey was afraid to stand up to him, and Henry couldn't be glad about it. 

Resigned, Henry leaned over to point at the paper in Joey’s lap: SHOW ME

“What will you even do when you find them?” Joey stalled. 

Another point. SHOW ME. 

Joey sighed. “Turn left up here. We’re close to one.”

Henry obeyed. They were delving deeper into the studio now, away from areas that to Henry were familiar and loved. Into wider spaces occupied by newer posters. 

“Right h-“ Joey began, and then his words died. “Stop,” he whispered; it was said so differently from everything else (close almost, to how Joey would once talk to him) that Henry instinctively obeyed. 

“You hear that?” Joey whispered.

Henry’s heart set off pounding. He knew, sooner rather than later, he’d come to face-to-face with the monster of his creation. But he was not sure all the sudden he was ready. 

Voices rose, 

“- more people, but we don’t know where to find them. We could be going in circles forever.”

“Dozens more, Thomas. That’s a lot of lives on the line.”

“How many people do you want to get out then?!”

“Allison,” Joey breathed. 

Oh. Not Bendy at all. Wait - Henry’s hands tightened on the wheelchair. Joey said that Bendy had an interest in her. They had to get her out of the studio.

Joey twisted in his seat, gazing up at Henry.“She has to come with us.”

What.

“We need all the help we can get,” Joey continued, “just the two of us against him - that’s nothing! But Allison - she’s faced him once already, and come away unscathed!”

No, but- 

“Allison!” Joey cried out; the voices hushed. “Allison, Allison, this way!” 

Henry twitched, no - they had to get Allison _out_ of the studio. But he couldn't speak.

Then there was rushing steps. Both Allison and Thomas appeared around the corner. 

Allison screamed and grabbed Thomas’ arm; at first the noise shocked Henry and he whipped his head around, hunting for that demon behind his back. But there was no Bendy, and in another second he felt foolish. She screamed because of Henry.

“Oh God, it’s Bendy,” Allison uttered faintly. 

Right. 

Because he looked like Bendy now. He looked like a monster.

“Wait-“ Joey started. “Wait this is a misunderstanding-“

“You disgusting, perverted _traitor_ ,” Allison snarled, directing this to Joey. 

“No no - Allison, listen here, this isn’t Bendy-“

“ _Hit him with something_ ,” Allison hissed to Thomas. 

“No, you don’t understand-“ Joey started.

“What?” Thomas yelped.

“ _Hit him_.”

Thomas’ head swung around, looking for something to use as a weapon. 

Henry chafed against his muteness again, but raised his hands, hoping to look innocuous. Allison yowled, flinching away from his movement. While Thomas hemmed and hawed in place, Allison snatched a fallen projector from the ground and swung it viciously.

The projector collided hard with Henry’s chest; ink sprayed. Henry froze in place, shocked. He felt the reverberations throughout his entire body, but… it hadn’t hurt, not exactly. Just a pressure and impact. 

Allison, panting, peered up at him through strands of feral hair. 

Henry looked down at himself.

The projector had ripped open his chest, revealing hints of a grey ribcage. Those… those were his _bones._ Dazed, Henry went to touch the wounds, but before he could bring himself to reach inside himself, bubbling ink sealed over the injury, as if it had never happened. His human heart hammered. God, this was not normal. This was so very not normal. 

Allison screamed. Henry looked up in time to see the projector flinging his way again, as Joey howled, 

“Stop it, you idiot!" 

The hard metal collided with his chest again. This time something snapped, and he _did_ feel that, a sharp crack through his body. His ribs. Two of them. Snapped inwards, goring his own blackened guts. More liquid-like ink oozed from the wound. 

The projector clattered to the floor as Allison backed up, nursing sore fingers. She backed into Thomas’ arms and he clung her tight while the two of them stared in helpless disbelief at him.  Henry stared back, just as bewildered, just as scared of himself. His more human fingers lightly grazed his broken ribs; splinters of pain spread from even the gentlest touch. But in the next moment, yet again, viscous ink flowed over, burying it from sight. With a few more cracks, the ink fixed his ribs. Repaired them. Just like that. On its own volition. 

Henry was slowly, slowly grasping the idea of immortality.  

“Goddamnit can none of you ever listen?” Joey snarled, fingers like claws over the wheels of his chair. “This isn’t Bendy! It’s _Henry._ How many times do I have to repeat myself!”

Based on Allison and Thomas’ looks, they trusted Joey just about as far as they could throw him and his wheelchair together. They both looked at Henry like they expected him to be their end, right here, right now. They expected him to kill them. Henry took an unsteady step back. He didn’t want to move any further, didn’t want to lift his hands or reach out or do anything that might be read as threatening. 

Joey talked into the silence, “Listen to me, why would I lie about this? If it were Bendy, he’d have you dead already! Look at him - it’s Henry, I swear. Bendy is the one that did this to him.”

Allison and Thomas said nothing. 

Joey swore and threw up his hands. “You can believe me or not, but we’re on our way to _destroy_ the Ink Machines. We’re going to _stop_ Bendy, so if you aren’t going to believe us…”Joey trailed off as if he had expected to be interrupted before finishing that statement. 

“Henry…?” Allison finally uttered. 

Henry ducked his head in something close to a nod. He wished desperately to speak. To explain himself. To say _anything_. 

“Oh God.” She covered her mouth. 

“How-?” Thomas began; Allison pulled out of his clutches and stepped nearer. 

“Is there - I mean - are you-?” 

“Be careful,” Thomas hissed. 

Allison dared to reach out a hand, but her fingers stopped well short of touching him. “Is your body under that ink?”

Hesitation, then Henry shook his head somberly. His bones, maybe. Some of his organs. But he knew everything was warped now, twisted away from humanity. She had asked likely because she wanted to know if there was anything _recoverable._ Much as Henry wanted to share her hope… he couldn’t. His body had died. Been repurposed and melded into this. It was just ink keeping him alive at this point. 

“Can you talk?” Allison whispered.

Another head shake. 

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” Allison said, hushed. “If I had- God, Henry, you didn’t deserve this.“ Finally her fingers made contact - just above his wrist. Nothing in her movements had been quick or unexpected. The entire gesture was an innocuous display of sympathy. But the moment she touched him panic flared. Images poured in of Sammy and Bendy had the things they had done to him - Henry recoiled as if he’d been shocked. 

Joey yelped; Allison flinched. 

“Sorry, sorry-“ she said.

Henry hugged his own torso, fighting off the intrusive thoughts. It was unsettling how easily, how quickly those thoughts could return.

He didn’t want to dwell on this. 

He wanted to apologize - his movement had scared everyone present - but he couldn't speak.

Joey laughed nervously in the silence. “Well. He’s just a little touchy as of late, you see. That demon lurking about will do anyone in!”

“Yeah.” Allison dropped her hand. Her eyes lingered on Henry, sad in an indescribable way. She shook her head, and looked at Joey. “You said you were - destroying the Ink Machines?”

“I _assume_ that’s what we’re doing with them,” Joey muttered, glancing Henry’s way. “And defeating Bendy, of course. It’s wrong to let that thing continue its reign of terror.”

“Because you’re such a paragon of morality,” Allison said chillily. "Don't pretend for a second like you care about anyone but yourself."

“Ink Machines?” Thomas interjected. “ _Multiple_ of them _?”_

While Joey explained the situation, Henry forcefully towed himself from his inner thoughts. Joey was seeking their help. But he needed to get those two out, especially if Bendy wanted to hurt Allison. Henry stalled in place, until an idea struck him and he turned to the wall. 

In long, dripping black words he wrote ESCAPE

As before, it took him a frustratingly long time, and by the end the other three had gone silent watching him. Henry pointed to the words, then to Allison and Thomas.

“Never heard a better idea,” Thomas muttered.

“We can’t leave you two,” Allison said, then corrected herself frigidly, “at least not Henry.”

Henry slammed his hand next to the words, insistent. 

Allison shook her head. “I’m sorry, Henry. If there's a chance you're going to face that demon, then we’re coming with you.”

“Are we?” Thomas whispered.

“ _Yes_.”

“Great,” Joey said. “Then the nearest machine is this way-“

“Hold on.” Thomas had his feet planted. “Hold on just a second. We can’t keep - grabbing _projectors_! You want us to _look_ for these machines? How likely is it we're gonna come across him! We need weapons.”

“Maybe we could find some loose piping…” Allison trailed off. “But I don’t think it’s going to do anything against him.” She glanced towards Henry; he knew she was thinking of the way his body had so easily reformed over his injuries. Like it or not, he was now, in physical form, similar to Bendy. 

“I’m not going into a fight using _water balloons_ ,” Thomas said gruffly. 

“God, we really are in a cartoon.” Allison touched her temple. “Umm, maybe buckets, water bottles- None of those will keep him down long.” She had to be recalling the water hose that had wiped Bendy across the entire floor - even that, Bendy had bounced right back from. The look she gave Joey was a very lost one. “How are you going to fix this?”

“The priority would be cutting off sources he might draw strength from,” Joey said. “Which we were on the way to doing…”

“I’m not going anywhere near him without something to defend myself,” Thomas asserted. 

“I agree,” Allison said. “Even just something to hit him with. It’s gotta slow him down, if nothing else. We can’t go in totally helpless.”

“We don’t have time-“ Joey grit out. 

“Wally’s office,” Thomas said. “He’s got all kinds of tools.”

That was all it took for Henry to grab the handles of Joey’s wheelchair and signal Thomas to lead.

Joey complained the entire way there, but they reached Wally’s office without encountering any difficulties. Once there, Henry and Joey hovered by the door while Allison and Thomas scoured the shelves. 

Henry watched Allison linger by his desk, gazing at a colored drawing hung up on the wall. Must’ve been from his kid… Allison drifted her fingers over the drawing, held in place. He understood her sorrow. Neither of them had known Wally well - something that Henry now regretted, so long working in this place without knowing one of the men who, like him, was there from the start. But his loss still hit deep. His family would be suffering for so long.

“Another one of these will come in handy,” Thomas said across the room, hefting up an axe.

Allison turned away from the picture. "It will," she agreed quietly. In her own roaming, she then  found a tool belt and slung it around her hips, having to wrap it nearly twice around given her small frame. In the pouch she placed a variety of tools - wrench, scissors, hammer, a few long nails.

“Uh, you sure-“ Thomas started. 

“I know how to handle this stuff. Let’s go.”

This motley crew set off, with Joey guiding. The studio was deathly silent; they came across nobody and nothing and reached the next Ink Machine location with no trouble. It was right beside a staircase leading down.

“The earliest attempt,” Joey explained, pointing to a square boarded up in the walls. “It’s behind there.” 

Yes, this close, Henry could feel it. He didn’t like it one bit.

“Well-“ Thomas tapped his axe meaningfully, but Henry brushed past him. He wanted to do this himself. Henry worked his fingers in the slits between the boards. With very little effort, the wood snapped like a gunshot and in minutes he had the passageway cleared, only a mess of destroyed boards and loose nails scattered about. This revealed a machine which, just as Joey had said, was minuscule compared to the one Henry had first seen. It was maybe one square foot, and had only a few black tubes winding around it like snakes that then burrowed into the walls. 

Looking at it made Henry feel cold inside, the sort of cold that made him feel like he’d never be warm again. 

The tiny machine hummed merrily. The pipes pulsed with ink. It was functional, working.

“You leave it running?” Allison asked, a frigid edge to her words.

“No.” Joey looked pale. “It was off this morning, I swear to you. None of them have been on since I last used them-“

“So Bendy was already here-“ 

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Joey said, voice high-pitched. 

Disturbingly, Henry felt part of him _respond_ to the thing, and it wasn’t just the fear and uneasiness with which he was familiar. No… there was comfort in it. Strength. The ink that ran through its veins now ran through his own, and for a moment he wondered if he wasn’t sensing the machine in the same way Bendy would. 

That thought alone was enough for Henry to unhesitantly reach into the nook and wrap his hands around the machine. He forcefully pulled it free; all the little tubes connecting it to the wall popped free like torn vessels and, dangling, pathetically oozed black sludge. Putting all his strength behind it, Henry crushed the little device in his fists until it was just crumpled metal, like a squashed tin can. 

The machine was at last quiet, its humming no longer playing along Henry’s ink.

The only thing left was the drip of his inky flesh striking the ground. Thomas and Allison were silent, staring.

“Well then,” Joey laughed tersely. “Two down; two to go. Shall we?”


	35. Allison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> qskdjf this story has been hard to write lately, so here's a very short chapter... I'm hoping something short will help jumpstart my mojo again.

Even with all the tools bouncing at her hip, Allison couldn't feel safe. Very much the opposite. Her heart wouldn't stop pounding, and she felt perpetually on the verge of a nervous breakdown, like any second she could snap. 

It didn’t help being in Joey’s presence. Her blood boiled at the mere sight of him. If they made it out of this alive, then Allison, by any means necessary, would guarantee he never saw the light of day again. It killed her to keep his disgusting secret, but telling it now… it would only throw everyone in turmoil, and compromise their chances of winning against Bendy. 

As for Henry…. She looked at him, and her response was a blend of instinctual fear and pity. He had deserved none of this. And she didn’t think he was ever going to look human again. (She was scared to think he wasn’t ever going to _be_ human, either). 

God, she was trembling. Her arms ached from attacking Henry with the projectors. She regretted wasting adrenaline on that, not that she could have known it was Henry rather than Bendy… Still, a deep trepidation was breeding in her heart the deeper in the studio they went. She’d already been through so much, and she didn’t feel prepared for anything else. She was constantly torn between exhaustion and frayed nerves… she was _thirsty_ , hell. 

They had a fifty fifty chance of encountering Bendy at this next machine, didn’t they? If he was indeed going from machine to machine turning them on, which seemed to be his objective. You were supposed to go into fights or scary situations at full energy, and yet she felt abysmally unprepared. 

She was so consumed in these thoughts that she didn’t at first notice when Joey stopped his wheelchair.

“Well,” he laughed tightly, and only then did she turn around. The smile on his face was forced. “This is as far as I go. You see, the next machine is just around the corner, and the last isn’t far, either. You’ll find them both, very easy! And I - I will only drag you three down-“

Henry, tall and looming behind Joey, didn’t seem to be making any move to disagree with Joey.Allison couldn’t believe he wasn’t doing _something_ \- but then again, Henry didn’t know all Joey’s secrets. 

Joey continued, “So, I wish you the best of luck! I’m sure it’ll go smoothly with such competent-“

“No,” Allison said.

Joey blinked.

“You don’t get to do that.” Allison’s voice shook in near-hysterics. “You don’t get to do _everything_ you did, and then walk away from this. Leaving _us_ to clean up your mess!”

Joey’s clear blue eyes revolted her. She saw fear deep in them, not only of Bendy, but also of the secret she had thus far kept. 

Very quickly that fear was hidden by rage. Joey Drew hated being talked down to. Well, Allison didn’t care. He could deal with it. “Show us the next machine,” she demanded. “And don’t even think about sneaking off.”

“Of course,” he said, lips smiling and eyes frigid. 

Thomas shot her an inquisitive look, and she shook her head. “You know he’s an ass,” she muttered.

“No, no,” Thomas huffed, amused, “Just nice to see someone stand up to him.”

The next machine proved to be about the size as the last, no more than one square foot. Just like last time, there was no Bendy around, but the machine was certainly functional.

Thomas stood to the side obediently while Henry brushed past him and crushed the machine, much in the way he had before. It still made Allison flinch, the scraping metal raw on her frayed nerves. Henry was… 

Well, he scared her. But she also felt immense sadness for him. There was no way she could relate to his situation, not truly, but as she looked at him, hunched over the crumpled machine that dripped ink like a pathetic dying creature, she couldn't bear the idea that he’d never turn back. There had to be a way, right? 

Henry dropped the machine with a clang. He turned to face her, as if reading her thoughts, and she refrained from shivering. That huge grin unsettled her, even if she knew the mind behind it was Henry Stein. 

“One more to go, then,” Joey said in a small voice. His rage had fled. “L-look, you two - well, three - let’s be practical. You are all much more equipped to handle-"

“Joey,” Allison bit out. 

“I’m certain he wants me dead,” Joey confessed lowly. “You wouldn’t sentence me to death, would you?”

Allison’s freezing glare said it all, but it was Thomas that spoke,

“Uh - Mr. Drew, pretty sure that demon wants us all dead. We’re gonna need any help we can get.”

“All the more reason to just leave the studio altogether and lock him in,” Joey squeaked. 

“Let’s keep moving,” Allison bit out. She’d love to just leave, but with three machines now destroyed, their best bet was attacking now. If he was allowed to regain control of the entire studio again…. She didn’t want to think of it.

“I-I don’t want to!” Joey grasped the wheels of his chair. Allison was sure that Henry’s strength would be nothing against Joey’s, but Henry allowed the pause. “You can’t _force_ me to do this! We’re lucky he’s not attacked yet, and if he sees me-“ Joey gripped his chest, suddenly short of breath and words.

Henry grabbed the wheelchair handles. 

“Where’s the next one?” Allison asked. 

“No, no, NO,” Joey shook his head. “You have to let me go; you’re keeping me hostage - this is illegal!”

“Don’t start on what’s legal or not, Joey.”

“We should get moving,” Thomas said lowly.

“You - you don’t understand, I’m blameless, I never wanted any of this to happen-“ Joey’s voice was rising in distress.

“You, _blameless_ -?”

“Quickly?” Thomas added.

“We have all made mistakes,” Joey allowed nervously, “but this thing with Bendy - there was no way I could have anticipated the results. I helped where I could, of course, but I can’t any further - look, Henry will destroy the last machine, and everything will be fine - I’m a man of my word, Allison, I won’t leave the entrance of the studio, if you just take mercy on me and let me retreat-“

Allison could have laughed. She couldn't believe how much more pathetic Joey could be, how low he could sink. “If you think for one second that -“ 

“Do you hear that?” Thomas interjected sharply. 

Everyone went silent. 

There was… music. 

A merry tune distantly played by an organ and trumpet, punctuated by the thumping of a drum and the clashing of cymbals. Nobody would want to play any music right now. Nobody but Bendy. Allison looked with dread down the hall. “Is that where the machine is?” She asked.

Joey nodded, pale. “By the carousel.”

“There’s a _carousal_?”

“Never quite worked right. Now the room is storage. Exactly why I tossed the machine in there.” He laughed shortly, nervously.

“Let’s go,” Allison said, with a front of calmness that she did not at all feel. 

Joey clutched the spokes of his wheelchair. “Oh, no, no. I - I will keep watch here.”

“Henry?” Allison prompted. The looming, swaying monster that was now Henry gazed at her, or so she assumed - it was nearly impossible to tell where he was looking. But in the next second, he pushed Joey’s wheelchair. His strength overrode Joey’s, and the previous studio owner yanked his fingers away from the churning wheels. 

“No!” He howled. No, you can’t force me-!”

With that he launched out of his wheelchair and made a run for it - at least, tried. He took only a few lurching steps before Henry’s bulbous white hand clamped down on his arm and twisted his shoulder nearly out of its socket.

“Stop - stop it,” Joey gasped. “Henry, you’re hurting me-“

Instantly, Henry released him. Joey took off, pitching and staggering like a sea-tossed ship.

“Don’t let him go!” Allison yelled.

Thomas threw a look at her, “honestly, we don’t need him-“

“Thomas, I swear, we can’t lose sight of him.” 

It took a second for the sincerity in her eyes to translate, and then Thomas was off, like this was some silly game of tag. Soon Thomas had Joey’s arms snagged, and he held him while Joey feverishly thrashed, shrieked, and writhed, fists flying. 

“Henry, please-“ Allison pleaded. Thomas was barely holding onto Joey: despite Thomas’ greater strength, Joey was like a possessed man, fighting tooth and nail to get free.

Luckily, this battle seemed to have finally galvanized Henry. It took Henry no time to secure Joey, until the studio owner looked like frightened thin rabbit in the clutches of a dripping black wolf with an enormous grin. Even Thomas backed away as soon as Henry approached, and Allison didn’t entirely blame him.

“Why do we need him?” Thomas asked, sidling nearer to Allison.

“He’s coming with us,” Allison answered. 

“Please, no,” Joey pleaded, “Allison, dear Angel, you wouldn’t be so cruel-“

“C’mon,” Thomas muttered. He and Allison began to follow the music, as little as either of them wanted. Henry took the rear, half-carrying Joey, who still uttered weak protests.

It was clear this area of the studio was more neglected, cobwebs in the corners and half the lights dim orout. But there was a light behind a door at the end of the hall, one burning a bright yellow glow. It was from there the music swelled, louder and louder as they neared. 

Thomas tightened his grip on his axe. “Don’t think he’s in there, do you?”

“I don’t know.” Allison rifled through her own tool kit, and pulled the hammer from it. 

Thusly armed, she peered around crack of the doorway and into the room. It was enormous, and crammed floor to ceiling with a carousel. White muscled horses reared high above Allison’s head, but their bodies were misshapen, deformed grotesquely. Ink bled from their swollen bodies and their wide, terrified eyes, as they undulated around the middle of the the carousel, which was lined with mirrors and a lattice of painted pictures; open fields, flowers, horses, farm animals. Every panel in the lattice was bubbled and distorted, like the rotting wall of an old house. Some places were stained black. 

“That’s… really creepy,” Thomas whispered behind her.

Allison’s heart sunk. There wasn’t any doubt about this room. Bendy had his fingers deep in it. She remembered too well the sort of powers the demon could have… turning floorboards into pits of ink, changing the walls however he pleased. Maybe he didn’t have control over the entire studio, but it seemed this room was under his command.

She did not, however, see him anywhere.

“What do we do?” Thomas asked.

“This is the place, right?” Allison looked to Joey, who glumly nodded.

She slithered around the half-open doorway. “Let’s keep moving then.”

She began to skirt around the carousel, only to realize that Henry wasn’t following. The former animator hovered in the doorway, grin painfully distended. Joey, in his clutches, was pale as a ghost. “A-are you going to let me go?” He asked Henry. “Take mercy on your old friend, Henry-“

“Henry,” Allison hissed. “Are you coming?”

Henry’s large horned head swung, taking in the room. A small, weak chirp emitted from him. 

“We have to find the machine.”

Henry turned to face her. One horn twitched. A nod. Then he was entering the room with heavy, ink-sodden steps. 

“No-“ Joey squealed, “no, leave me at the entrance, I can’t help anyway, I won’t run-“ 

Henry hesitated again.

Allison’s eyes darted around the room, making sure Bendy wasn’t near, then she growled, “Henry, please - we need you. And we can’t let Joey go.”

Still Henry didn’t move. 

It was understandable he felt conflicted, not only scared to enter himself, but unhappy and scared about forcing his friend to enter with him. 

"Trust me,” Allison said.

“Joey’s gonna be useless anyway. Too scared to be any help,” Thomas muttered. “Just let him go. We’ll destroy the machine without him.”

Allison chewed her lip. If they let Joey go, she had no doubt he’d vanish. 

“He’s not as good of a person as you think he is,” Allison said. “He’s done things, worse things than you know.”

“What?” Thomas whispered.

“No, no-“ Joey shook his head. “Henry, you know me, I - I made mistakes, like I said, but- nothing - nothing to justify forcing me here-“

This was taking too long. “It’s only one room we have to search,” Allison said. “Henry and Joey - you stay here. Thomas and I will destroy the machine.”

“Don’t think we won’t want Henry’s-?“ Thomas waved his hand vaguely.

“He’ll be right here if we need him. Right Henry?”

Henry nodded mutely.

“Let’s get that machine quick.” Allison crept around the side of the carousel. Soon she found the source of the music. A large music box, perhaps six feet high, was placed against the wall, painted a deep red. It was set up like a miniature puppet show stage, the curtains drawn aside to reveal tiny figurines - characters from the show. They were framed by mirrors which oddly reflected and distorted their bodies in abnormal ways. Boris was at the drum, his tiny mechanical arm beating the surface, while Barley operated the cymbals, Edgar had a trumpet held to his lips, and Charley was beating a stick down Edgar’s head with every thump of the drums. Bendy and Alice were at the very front of the stage, neither operating any machine, but their limbs were jolting and twitching in some sort of dance. 

It nauseated Allison to look at too long.  

“C’mon,” Thomas whispered to her. He kept watching the mirrors on the carousel, as if expecting any moment for something to materialize. 

She nodded mutely. They had to keep moving.


End file.
